


My Fare Thee Well

by rea_of_sunshine



Series: My Fare Thee Well [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Dean Winchester, Awesome Charlie, Bartender Benny, Big Brother Gabriel, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Charlie Ships It, Cutting, Dead Sam Winchester, Dean Being an Asshole, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Depressed Dean Winchester, Editor Castiel, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Constipated Dean, Emotionally Repressed Dean, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Panic, Gay Sex, Insecure Castiel, Insecure Dean Winchester, Jealous Castiel, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore Lives, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Overdose, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempts, Switching, Top Castiel, Top Dean, emotional warfare, homosexual castiel, sculptor Dean, suicide sponsor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rea_of_sunshine/pseuds/rea_of_sunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>     Dean spent his whole life looking after Sammy, but now Sammy is dead, and everything is Dean's fault. After his failed suicide attempt, the hospital refuses to let him leave alone, so the dark haired, blue-eyed man who saved him volunteers readily. Little do either of them know that they will each be the salvation and the devastation of the other.</p><p>     There will be no happy ending. That is not what this story is. This story is real and it's heartbreak. It’s Dean breaking down. It’s Cas falling apart. It’s the two of them falling in love only to tear it all up. This is fair warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING!!!**
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>      This fic constantly references Dean's suicidal thoughts, actions, tendencies, and desires. If you have gone through similar situations and are likely to relapse, please, please, _please_ consider skipping this fic, as I don't want any of you beautiful people to hurt. 
> 
>  
> 
> **ON A MUCH LESS IMPORTANT NOTE!!!!**
> 
>  
> 
>      The title, My Fare Thee Well, was inspired by The Fray's Vienna, which, in my opinion is a wonderful Destiel song.

     How many times has he imagined this moment? Sometimes, he fantasizes a gun, others, a noose. Sometimes, he’s hanging from a ceiling fan in the library-turned-home he bought for Sam, others, his brains are splattered against one of the dingy motel rooms that made up his childhood after his mother’s death. He’s seen his death a hundred times over, each scenario different from the last. It really doesn’t matter to him though; the outcome is still death, freedom.

     Sam would call him a quitter, beg him to come down, but Sam’s not here to tell him anything anymore. All because that mugger on Seventh Street wanted his watch, the same one Dean gave him for Christmas. Sitting up there, Dean can see that watch. He can see Sam’s face when he opened the other gift. Their childhood was spent living out of cheap motel rooms and in the back seat of their Impala. All the poor kid ever wanted was a home, so Dean went and spent his life’s saving on that old library for his twenty-five-year-old baby brother. He had given him the key for Christmas and that damned watch.

     Dean is on top of a bridge. He spotted it a few weeks ago on his way home from the liquor store. Ever since he saw it, he hasn’t been able to get the image of flinging himself off it out of his mind. It is a perfect candidate. In the middle of nowhere, no one will be looking out of their windows and watching. Abandoned, no one will be coming along and trying to change his mind.

     It wouldn’t work anyways. Dean lost his will to live when he went to I.D. Sam’s body. Seeing his little brother, the gangly son-of-a-bitch he watched grow up and raised while their mother shifted in her grave and their father went on a continuous bender, seeing him lying there, dead on that slab, it practically killed him. Up until then, he was foolish enough to hope Sam would waltz back through the door of their library, apologize for scaring the shit out of his brother, and curl up on the couch with one of his many books.

     The night Sam left, they had both been in one of their moods. Dean had spent the entirety of the morning fixing cars at the shop and denying that relentless real estate agent Bobby’s shop—the one who, in hindsight, won the place anyways. He was under the Impala in an attempt to dissipate his awful mood when Sam came home from _his_ job at Bobby’s and had immediately started complaining. He had been bitching about how badly the shop was doing without Bobby alive to run it and how ungrateful everyone is for all that he does, and eventually, Dean had snapped. He had been sure to tell Sam that Dean was the only one who did shit at the garage and lots of other things he only said because he was angry. Sam had squirmed, turned away in silence, and left. He was gone for three days before Dean started getting really worried. He called his phone repeatedly, but Sam had been dead for 54 hours already.

     After calling Sam’s phone, the hospital called and asked Dean’s relation to the owner of the phone. Dean told the man he was Sam’s brother. They then asked him to come to the hospital. Dean went home that day, looked around at the house filled with Sam’s half-read books, his gigantic shoes tucked neatly by the door, his clothes waiting to be moved from the dryer to his room. Dean stopped in the threshold, considered burning the place to the ground, then went to the library’s garage and took a mallet to his beloved car, anger keeping his anguish at bay.

     “I wasn’t there,” he’d screamed as the hammer slammed again and again against the Impala’s perfectly manicured paint. “I wasn’t there when he needed me.” A blow to the driver’s side door left a perfect mallet-shaped dent. “He’s dead now.” The windshield shattered underneath his weapon. “All because of me.” The headlights hadn’t stood a chance. “It’s all my fault.” The rage left him in a rush, stealing his warmth as it went. The tears started just as quickly as his anger fled, and they didn’t stop as he slid to his knees amidst the glass from his broken car. It served him right to have a broken car. Their whole lives had been nothing but Dean screwing up. Why should Sammy’s death be an exception?

     The doctor said he felt Sam’s killer had militant training. The man shattered his vertebrae and cut his spinal cord in one fell swoop. They still have the police looking for him. They told Dean that, frankly, there was very little likely hood that they would find the man.

     Dean, standing dozens of feet over the ground, can still see that damned watch. He came _this_ close to never buying it even though it was the real gold one that he’d seen Sammy eyeing. Dean wasn’t sure he could afford it, but the first key to the library had seemed so small in his hand. He just wanted Sam to know how much he cared for him even if he would never find the words.

     If he’d never bought that watch, his baby brother would still be alive. If he’d never gone off on Sam over something as trivial as a bad day, his brother would still be alive. Dean closes his eyes to the dark of the night, remembering his little brother’s face. It’s been months since he died, and the fact that Dean has gone on this long without him is a miracle in and of itself. He knows now that he can’t go on longer.

     So here he is, sitting on top of a rusty, old bridge in the middle of a cool September night, waiting for the perfect moment to pitch himself off. The thought makes his stomach roll, either with his fear of heights or his anticipation of what’s to come, he doesn’t know. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. His resolve is final. Tonight, he’ll free himself from this hell. He wonders if he’ll make it to Heaven. Dean’s done a lot of shitty things in his life, but he’s also done some good. He knows Heaven is where Sam is. Hell, the kid has probably already learned every cheruby song on his little, golden harp. Maybe Dean’ll make heaven. If he does, he’ll see his baby brother again. The mere chance of seeing Sam’s face is enough to make him swallow his insignificant fear of heights and scoot to the edge. He looks down at the unforgiving asphalt beneath, just waiting to be provoked.

     “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispers, staring at the road striped with yellow. “Sorry I couldn’t be brave for you. I’m sorry, Dad; sorry I couldn’t protect Sam like you told me to. I tried.” Dean feels tears well in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bobby. You spent your life being a father to us when our father was only concerned about the bottle.” He pauses, knowing he has only one more person left to apologize to. “Sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry.” Dean’s voice is nothing more than a mumble, his tears stinging on their rapid descent. “You were the one person I was never supposed to let down. I spent my whole life trying to protect you, trying to do right by you, and I just-”

     His voice breaks, and he has to gather himself before he can continue. “I remember when you were little—two or three—you spent a whole month wearing nothing but my clothes even though I was seven and my clothes were way too big for you. When I asked you why you didn’t want to wear your own clothes, you smiled and told me that you wanted to be just like me. I thought it was super annoying at the time because you were my annoying little brother.” Dean smiles, and something broken comes out of him, something pitiful that would qualify as a laugh if it didn’t break your heart so much to hear. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. I let you down. I let you down, you little bitch.” His sobs are broken by another pitiful laugh that, once it leaves, leaves Dean with nothing left. He shifts his weight forward, and the last thing he sees before he hits the ground is pair of headlights against the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

     When Dean comes around, the light over his eyelids is blinding. He wonders blearily if he made the heavenly helping, but then he realizes every inch of him aches. Hell, then, he decides resignedly, without surprise. Dean is convinced he’s never done anything to earn Heaven. 

     For a moment, he just lies there attempting to gather himself for Hell. When Dean opens his eyes, he sees sterile white ceilings, a curious choice for Hell, he has to admit, but who is he to determine the layout of Hell? Something tells him to hold his head up, to protect himself. Despite having committed suicide, Dean Winchester is not the type of person to go down without a fight. He tries to lift his head, and a groan, ear-shattering against the eerie silence, bounces back from the empty walls. 

     "Careful," a rough voice warns, and he feels vaguely dumb for not realizing he had company. Despite his pain, he keeps his eyes open, his only act of defiance he has left. Let the devil come for him. He'll watch the whole damn thing. After a moment his eyes grow heavy, and he feels as though maybe defiance should come after ten more minutes of sleep. Just before his eyes slip back shut, a blurry face slips into vision, a man with a furrowed brow pushed low over blue eyes. He is beautiful, and Dean is dead. 

     "An angel in Hell," he murmurs before the darkness covers him again. The next time he opens his eyes, it occurs to him how strange it is that his sleep in Hell has been his most peaceful in a while. When he awakes again, his eyesight is blurry, and he definitely knows he is in Hell this time around. "Damn it," he groans, closing his eyes against the harshness of the light. 

     "Are you okay?" A gruff voice asks, the same from earlier, the one that belongs to the angel. Dean, startled by the angel in Hell, opens his eyes. The man before him looks confused, anxious.

     "Who are you?" Dean asks after a moment, voice rough and broken after going so long without use. He wonders if his voice is simply different here in Hell. The man before Dean smiles a little, if you could even call it that. It's more of a softening of his eyes, a breaking of his perfect composure. 

     "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." The man is doing that thing with his mouth that Dean guesses could qualify as a proud smile, but he is lost. The angel’s words threw Dean for a loop, and the longer it takes Dean to process, the more the angel’s not-smile slips away.

     "Huh," Dean asks finally, but the angel is looking away. 

     "I found you there," the man says, staring at the wall above Dean's head. It occurs to Dean that, although every inch of him aches like a bitch, he's rather comfortable. On reflex, Dean flexes his hands at his sides, but his fingers get caught in what feel like sheets.

     "Am I dead?" Dean asks, a deep feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, and under that, wilder than that, anger courses through him like a wildfire during a drought. The angel’s eyes drift back to Dean, his brows pulled low and close over his eyes.

     "No," he says, and the rage in Dean's stomach explodes, leaving him positively trembling. "Do you wish you were?" He asks, but Dean cannot bring himself to answer. 

     "How dare you," Dean snarls, every muscle tensed despite his soreness. So not Hell, a hospital--though what’s the difference really--and the man before him is not an angel. He's just the bastard of a man who took away even his right to die. "I wanted to die!" Dean snarls, his voice breaking in rage. The man with the dark, unruly hair, the one who "gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition" furrows his brow further. 

     "What is your name?" He asks, eyes squinting against the harsh lighting.

     "What does it matter?" Dean spits, glaring at the man.

     "I saved your life. You at least owe me your name." The man replies, to which Dean scoffs. 

     "Robert Plant," he retorts, but the man seems unfazed.

     "I am Castiel," he says, voice level and unconcerned about Dean's hostility. Dean nearly scoffs at the irony. He's named after an angel, of all things.

     "Why'd you do it?" Dean spits, the darkness starting to swirl through his brain again like the moment it did when he found that bridge. Sam's still dead. Dean's still alive, and all because of this blue eyed bastard standing over him now. A pathetic laugh slips through his throat. "Why couldn't you just have let me die?"

     "What's the matter?" Castiel asks, but Dean only scoffs again. He's lying in this God forsaken hospital bed fending off questions about his recent suicide attempt. Why'd he try it? It’s Dean's fault his brother is dead. He only ever screws up. Hell, he's the reason the Mets lost the World Series for all he cares. "You don't think you deserve to be saved," Castiel murmurs eventually, reading in Dean's face what he wouldn't--or couldn't--say out loud.

     "It doesn't matter," Dean mumbles. He lets his eyes drift back to the man called Castiel, anything to push away the image of that golden, engraved watch. Castiel opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can get a word out, a gorgeous woman in a white coat waltzes through the door to his room. She smiles brightly at Dean, and had he not been plotting his suicide--one he'd do right: a gun this time--he might have hit on her. Honestly though, Dean doesn't feel a one night stand is worth the effort it would take to act alright, and if that doesn't say something about how far he's fallen, nothing will. 

     "Hi there," she says, voice bright but calming. "How are you feeling?" She asks, pulling the clipboard from the foot of Dean's bed. Her smile falters a bit when she reads his file. Castiel sits quietly in the chair next to his bed, watching the woman with that same low browed concentration that he'd been wearing all morning. "Can you tell me your name?" She asks Dean, but Dean has already resolved not to tell her anything that could help her help him. He doesn't want to be helped. He doesn’t deserve to be helped. She stares expectantly at him for a few moments before Castiel eagerly pipes up. 

     "His name is Robert Plant," he says, to which Dean can't help but snort. The man is clueless. The dark haired doctor smiles and cuts her eyes back to the board in her hand. 

     "Well, Mr. Plant," she says, rolling with it even though she knows it's not real. "You have three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, numerous scrapes and lacerations, forty-one stitches, and a ruptured spleen. Even so, you should consider yourself very lucky that Mr. Novak here found you when he did." Dean snorts, those broken ribs suddenly finding full focus.

     "Lucky," he repeats, incredulous around the ache. The doctor's smile turns sad. 

     "Is there anyone we can call for you? Family, friends who should know you're here?" Her voice is gentle, but still, it sparks the that same anger in him that learning he failed—surprise—at killing himself did.

     "No friends, family's dead," Dean says, laying his head back against his pillow. No one says anything for a long moment. "When can I go home?" He asks finally, tracing the steps to the gun cabinet in his mind. After another moment, the doctor answers in a careful voice.

     "You're on a 48 hour suicide watch. When these 48 hours are up, your condition will be reassessed then. Depending on the verdict, you will either be discharged or kept for further observation." Her voice is cool, calculated, but Dean doesn't miss the way it almost trembles at the word suicide. When Dean opens his eyes again, Castiel is staring at him, but the doctor is looking back at the charts. "As for your physical condition, we've already removed your spleen and set your ribs. We've also set your shoulder, but should you feel any pain more severe than an ache, please call." The doctor smiles for another moment, and then leaves Dean and Castiel alone. They sit in silence for a long while, Castiel seeming perfectly content while Dean practically writhes from it. After a while, Dean can stand it no longer. 

     "You don't have to stay," he says, the hostility barely concealed. "You've done more than enough." His tone is biting, but Castiel seems not to notice the harshness.

     "I don't want to leave," Castiel says, tilting his head in confusion, as though his intentions and desires were perfectly obvious and perfectly reasonable. 

     "Why the hell not?" Dean snarls, but it's so difficult to stay mad at Castiel. It's like being angry at a puppy. 

     "Like you said, you have no one else. I brought you here, so now you're my responsibility." Castiel speaks as though it were still the most obvious thing in the world. Dean scoffs.

     "Are you going to feed me soup while I recover too, Clara?" Dean asks, but it is lost on Castiel. 

     "My name isn’t Clara, but I will prepare you soup if you want me to," Castiel says, but Dean can't even muster the energy to roll his eyes.

     "I'm going back to sleep," he says when he feels Castiel's eyes on him.

     "I'll watch over you," Castiel says, to which Dean only rolls his still closed eyes. They sit in silence for a while, just long enough for Dean to reach the brink of sleep. "Hey, Robert," Castiel says, to which Dean almost doesn't respond because he's in a deliciously uncaring state of mind, and he forgets that, for the moment, his name is Robert. Even so, Castiel takes his silence as assurance and continues. "Can I ask you a personal question?" The words do seep into Dean's sleepy brain, albeit slowly, but Dean still has trouble forming an intelligent response. 

     "No," he says finally, and, will miracles never cease, Castiel leaves it at that and lets Dean slip into sleep. He dreams of Castiel, strangely enough. He sees the man with ridiculously large wings, feathers black as night. He knows it came from his initial assessment of Castiel being an angel, but the image still throws him for a loop.

     When he awakes, he sees that Castiel has gone, and honestly, he can't even bring himself to feel angry. No one stays for too long, even ones who say they don’t want to leave.

     He leans his head against the hospitals ridiculously overstuffed pillows and stares at the ceiling. He thinks of Sam. He always thinks of Sam. After the police told him what little they could infer about the man who killed him, Dean went home, got wasted, and swore to his baby brother up in Heaven that he'd find the man who murdered him, and skin him alive. So far, he's only let him down, but who can expect more of him really? After several minutes of staring blankly at the ceiling, the door to his room opens, and from the bed, he cannot see who it is. He expects the red haired nurse from earlier, the one who came in wearing the smile of a girl looking to be flirted with, but when the person comes into view, he's honestly surprised to see that dark mop of hair. For the first time, Dean notices what Castiel is wearing, and even to Dean whose entire wardrobe consists of nothing but t-shirts, plaid, and blue jeans, the outfit is absurd. Well, not absurd, but definitely out of place for a man at a hospital carrying a bag of take out that smells like the heart attack Dean'll have at thirty-five. 

     "Dude," Dean asks incredulously. "What’s with the trench coat?" Castiel looks to Dean with no trace of amusement.

     "I had a meeting," Castiel says as if that were all it took.

     "What are you? A stock broker?" Dean snorts out a laugh, but again, Castiel just stares. Hell, the guy probably is a stock broker. 

     "No," he says, head tilted in confusion. "I'm a book editor." Dean wants to laugh for some reason. He does, but Castiel's complete sincerity keeps his chuckle at bay. 

     "I wasn't expecting you to be here when I woke up," Dean says to change the subject. In hindsight, it was probably the wrong thing to say.

     "I told you I'd watch over you," Castiel says, and Dean cannot help but gape at him. "I'm not one to lie, Robert." 

     "Dean," he mumbles, because, obviously the guy's not going anywhere, not just yet at least.

     "Excuse me," Castiel asks, head tilting like a confused animal.

     "My name isn't Robert Plant. It's Dean, Dean Winchester." Castiel's confusion worsens. 

     "Why did you tell me your name was Robert Plant?" Castiel asks, innocent and lost, and Dean manages a halfway convincing laugh.

     "It was a joke."

     "I don't get it," Castiel says, his eyebrows pulling tightly together.

     "Of course you don't," Dean mumbles, leaning his head back against the pillows. A few moments pass in silence before Castiel's rough voice comes scraping in. 

     "I brought dinner," he says, and the smell of that heart attack hits Dean again, and all at once he realizes how hungry he is. "What is it?" Castiel asks, pulling back the offer of food slowly. 

     "Why are you here?" Dean asks, the hostility nearly drained from his voice, replaces by confusion, earnest curiosity.

     "I brought dinner," Castiel says. Dean rolls his eyes, because honestly, the man is hopeless.

     "Why are you here, as in the hospital, as in with me?" Dean's voice is less angry still, more irritated to fill the space. Who knew clueless could be so frustrating.

     "Because you don't have anyone else," he says, his words cutting into Dean like a switchblade.

     "That doesn't make me your responsibility," Dean says, his anger rushing back. All he can think is that if he had jumped two minutes sooner, he'd probably be dead. Castiel saved his life, the bastard.

      "My sister was killed," Castiel says finally, his voice barely carrying over the monitors beeping. "A robber broke in and killed her. She was sixteen. I was the one who found her." Dean is shocked silent, his animosity slowing a bit. "I kept thinking if I had been there a moment sooner, I could have saved her." Castiel doesn't look at Dean, won't look at him. "I just wanted to make it right." 

     "I'm not your sister. I didn't want to be saved!" Dean's voice is harsh, and for the first time since his proud smirk, Castiel's mouth twitches.

     "You get to live, Dean, whether you wanted it or not. You can resent me for saving you, but it won't change the fact that I did, and that I’d do it again." Castiel's voice is passionate, immoveable. 

     "I don't need your permission to end my life," Dean snaps, and Castiel laughs a humorless laugh. 

     "You're right, but I'll be damned if I let you kill yourself now." Castiel stands and starts for the door, but Dean is screaming before he can make it out.

     "It's my damn life!" Castiel ignores him and slams the door on his way out. Dean fumes for a moment before punching the nurse-call button repeatedly. The nurse from earlier comes rushing in, hair swinging around her as she skids to a stop. 

     "Are you okay?" She asks, getting to his machines in one long stride. 

     "I want to go home," he says, forcing himself to a sitting position in hopes that he'll look less pathetic. The nurse, after determining he was alright, sighs dramatically. 

     "You can't go home. You're on suicide watch, and you live alone. There'd be no one around to make sure you don’t try again." Her voice is soft, slightly amused by his petulance, but Dean is not nearly amused.

     "Why does everyone care so much about whether I live or die? Why does my desire to die, to see my baby brother again affect you people at all?" Dean's voice is hard, but the nurse only smiles. 

     "It's my job to care about the patients." She smiles at Dean, but Dean is unaffected.

     "If I pinky promise not to take a butter knife to my wrists, can I go home?" Dean knows his promise would be meaningless, and apparently so does the nurse.

     "Let me talk with your doctor and Mr. Novak."

     "Castiel," Dean asks, shifting against his broken ribs and his dislocated shoulder. "What does he have to do with anything?"

     "He's your emergency contact. If we decide it's safe to discharge you, you'll be released into his custody." Her voice is gentle, knowing that Dean's out lash is coming. 

     "What the hell? I don't even know the guy. He could be a murderer!" Dean knows his reaction is a bit dramatic, but he thinks it gets his point across quite nicely. 

     "I'm not a murderer, Dean," Castiel says, startling him out of his stupor. The man's eyes slip away from Dean and take in the nurse. "What's this about his being released into my custody?" The grownups talk medical and legal for a long while, and despite his best efforts, Dean cannot force himself to even attempt to keep up after the fourth time the word _adjudication_ presents itself in the conversation. Instead, he thinks of that bridge, his bridge. He thinks of the library overflowing with books Sam will never get another chance to read. By the time he realizes someone is calling his name, the voice has already grown irritated.

     "Dean," Castiel says, staring intensely at him. "Come on," he says, offering a hand Dean rejects. "I'm taking you home." Home? The word echoes through Dean’s mind. Whose home? Castiel’s? Dean’s? The library is no home anymore, not without Sam. Even so, he lets Castiel lead him to his car, one that looks as though it should belong to a pimp. 

     “This is your car?” Dean asks, incredulous. 

     “Yes,” Castiel replies, not a moment of hesitation, and Dean can’t help but scoff. He slides into the passenger seat despite his reluctance. “Buckle your seatbelt please,” Castiel says before they ever pull out of the parking spot. 

     “Why?” Dean asks, glancing at Castiel. His hands are firmly at ten and two, looking as though he just fell out of a Driver’s Ed book. Cas turns his head, that confused look settling over his brow.

     “Because if we wreck, you could die.” His explanation is so innocent, so naïve that Dean decides he’s nothing more than an overgrown child. 

     “Did you miss the suicide attempt?” Dean asks, but he pulls the seatbelt across him anyways. 

     After they leave the hospital, Dean allows his mind to wander. He begins naming all the people he’s lost. His mom began his life of loss. She was the one who ripped him open and destroyed him. He was four. Next was his father, and believe it or not, his dad’s death hardened him. Next, it was Ellen and Jo. The mother and daughter died in a gas-leak explosion. Loosing those girls numbed him. Then Bobby died, and Dean decided he’d never get close to anyone else. He would spend his life keeping Sam safe and never give the world anyone else to take from him. Then Sam died, and he lost his will to live.

     Suddenly, a hand snatches his wrist. 

     “Stop that,” Cas says, his voice firm and demanding. Dean looks down at their hands, but Dean’s nails steal his attention with the bloodied mess they are. His eyes slide to his wrist, and all he can see are deep scratches on his wrist. The self-harm is a habit Dean doesn’t even notice anymore. It takes Dean a moment longer than it should for his eyes to meet Castiel’s. For some reason, he doesn’t want to disappoint this man. He’s tired of disappointing people, but he knows that’s all he’s good for. He sets his jaw and lifts his head, expecting to find Cas angry or disgusted, pitying or indifferent, but he just looks sad. It’s almost worse. They stare at each other for a long moment before Cas releases him and looks back to the road. “Where do you live?” He asks after a moment, his hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. His finger tips are stained in Dean’s blood. 

     “Why?” Dean asks, watching as the blood rolls down his forearm. 

     “Because I have to take you home.” Had anyone else said it, Dean would have thought it sarcastic, but having already established Castiel is nothing more than a child, Dean knows he’s being completely sincere. 

     “I thought you had to be on me like white on rice,” Dean asks with a half-hearted roll of his eyes. 

     “Oh,” Castiel mumbles. “Well, I suppose you could stay at my house.”

     “I have an idea,” Dean says, putting as much luster in his voice as he can manage. “How about you take me to my house and pretend you never met me.”

     “I can’t pretend I never met you,” Cas replies quietly. Dean ignores the clench in his stomach and directs him towards the library. When they arrive in front of the building Castiel frowns. “This is a library,” he says, peering through the windshield. 

     “My brother was a nerd,” Dean says by way of explanation. As Dean stares at the slate gray building, the numbness starts to spread through him.

     “But it’s a library,” Cas says, the gears very obviously turning in his head.

     “We converted the top floor into a little apartment,” Dean says before pushing open his door. Dean knows his gait is that of a broken human, but he feels it is only fitting. He is broken. 

     When he reaches the front door, he realizes he left it unlocked, expecting to never to return. He pushes it open, and, as every time before, the smell of Sam, the feel of Sam encloses around him. He lets himself believe, for a pathetic moment, that Sam is digging around between the aisles. Then Cas’ gruff voice startles him into reality.

      “The previous owners allowed you to keep all the books?” he asks, but Dean doesn’t want to talk about how he pawned off his mother’s wedding band to pay for all the books to stay. 

     “Make yourself at home,” Dean says instead, waving to the towering shelves and interior balconies that line the second floor. Dean takes the spiral staircase two at a time despite his soreness and hardly flinches at Sam’s permanently closed door. When he reaches his room, he pushes at the door before spotting a shift in his peripheral vision. 

     “Jesus, Cas,” he stutters, clutching his chest. Castiel’s brow is furrowed, but closer than he’s comfortable with. 

     “Cas,” he asks, oblivious to the invasion of Dean’s personal space.

     “Castiel is a mouthful,” Dean says with a shrug. “Uh, you’re standing kinda close.” Dean would back himself up, but the door is already pressed squarely with his shoulder blades. Cas stares at Dean a moment longer then steps back.

     “My apologies." Cas’ voice is gruff, as usual, but all Dean can think is that he could lose himself in that voice. By the time Dean realizes that he _has_ , Cas has realized it too.

     Dean suddenly feels as though he should apologize, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes open the door to his room and disappears inside. In the solitude of his room lie his blades, his alcohol, and his ropes, his guns, his pills, and everything he needs to end it. He could even choose how he wanted to do it. Something stops him though. He sees the pills on his nightstand, but he doesn’t take them. He sees the gun protruding from under his mattress, but he doesn’t load it. He sees a chance at escape at every corner, but he doesn’t take any of them. Instead, he keeps hearing Cas say that he couldn’t pretend he’d never met him. It’s that voice in his head that tells him to wait, to get to know Cas, and should Cas pan out as everything else in his life—painful—then he’ll finish what he started when he jumped from that bridge. For Dean, Cas is not his savior. He is not his recovery. He is simply an extension, a delay to the inevitable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may contain sensitive content for some readers as it talks a bit more in depth about Dean's depression, self-harm, and mentions his father's homophobia and reflects that some in his thoughts.

     When Dean comes out of his room—after only deflecting Cas’ anxious knocking twice—he sees Cas sitting cross-legged between the two autobiography aisles. The man’s trench coat is splayed around him, but he doesn’t look like he has a care in the world aside from the words on the page. Dean watches him for a moment from the safety of his balcony before heading down. 

     “Dean,” Cas calls up to him, his voice echoing against the soft bound books. 

     “Right here,” he says, stepping out from between the aisles. Dean knows he looks happier wearing his own clothes, less desolate. Cas’ eyes take him in with a sweeping gaze then still back on his face. 

     “You look good,” Cas comments, and once upon a time, Dean might have said something flirty in response. Once upon a time, Dean might have been attracted to the dark haired man sitting at his feet. Once upon a time, sure, but now, Dean’s heart aches at even the thought of letting someone in. So instead, he jokes with Cas, something that’s familiar, though his voice is flat and unconvincing. 

     “That’s what a shower’ll do,” he says forcing a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. Cas stares up at him for a moment, eyes squinted up at him.

     “Dean,” he starts, and the tone alone tells Dean he doesn’t want to hear the rest. It’s a placating tone, one full of promises that can’t be kept and reassurances that are simply smoke and mirrors. 

     “Don’t,” Dean says, smiling to keep himself from breaking. “Please, I don’t think I can…” His voice trails off, but Cas has stopped talking and is taking him in with careful consideration. 

     “I was just going to say that you don’t have to pretend to be okay. I understand.” Cas’ voice, though rough, is gentle. Dean feels tears prick in his eyes, and suddenly, he is rethinking his decision to postpone death to know this man. 

     “You’ve found my guilty pleasure,” Dean says quickly, scrabbling to change the subject. Cas stares, confused until Dean motions to the well-worn, dog-eared copy of _Girl, Interrupted_ lying open in his lap. It’s Dean’s favorite, right alongside Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Normally, he doesn’t mind people reading his favorite books, but normally, he doesn’t write notes in the margins as he did to _Girl, Interrupted._ Cas knows he’s found something personal by the way his fingers fumble to close it. 

     “I noticed it was out of place,” he explains quickly, looking down at its well-worn cover. 

     “My brother never came into the autobiographies. He always said people writing books about themselves were egotistical and no one he wanted to read about.” Dean smiles as he remembers his little brother. “Anyway,” he continues when the fondness turns to that familiar ache. “I hid it in here so the twerp wouldn’t tease me about loving Kaysen.” Dean doesn’t say it’s also so Sam wouldn’t read the hastily scribbled notes in the margins or the quotes about suicide and depression he’d underlined in red ink. See, Dean’s desire to die hadn’t started with Sam’s death. His desire to live stopped. 

     “Kaysen is great,” Cas says, pushing himself to his knees before straightening, leaving slides of dust on the knees of his dark pants. He doesn’t brush them off; in fact, he seems oblivious to them. Dean, on the other hand, cannot take his eyes off them. As he stares, the man in the dirty pants becomes himself at seventeen, the first time he’d sucked a guy off. He’d seen the man in the bar eyeing him. He’d also seen Sam rifling through the pantry he knew was completely bare. He hadn’t seen his father in a week. So he’d jerked his head pointedly to the door, and the man had followed him out.

     It was hard for Dean to do. It was even harder to admit there was a part of him that had actually enjoyed it. Even so, he’d refused to brush off his knees. He’d told himself he deserved to have dirt on his jeans. It was a shameful reminder of all he’d been forced to do for his brother. Not that he’d have let Sam go hungry. That night he’d brought a twenty home in the pocket of his dirty jeans and treated Sam to a pizza that, for all its cheese and grease, couldn’t expel the taste of that stranger’s come from Dean’s mouth. 

     “Dean,” Cas asks, bringing him back into reality. “Are you alright?” 

     “Yeah,” he says, shaking himself as though it will take away the ghostly taste. “Just lost in thought, I guess.” Cas nods thoughtfully, his fingers playing absently with the pages of Dean’s book.

     “What were you thinking about?” Cas asks, frowning against the lightness of the room. Dean knows that Cas can see the emptiness in his eyes, but Cas still pushes him, begging to know what goes on in his mind. It stops Dean in his tracks long enough to consider actually telling him the truth. 

     “Nothing worth repeating,” Dean replies with another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows he probably could have told Cas without too much judgment, but telling him anything feels like telling him everything. 

     “Okay, Dean,” Cas murmurs, sliding Dean’s book back into its sleuthic place. When Cas looks back at Dean, his blue eyes steal him. The silence between them is suffocating and impenetrable. Dean’s green eyes can’t seem to find their way out of Cas’ endless blue ones. After a while, Cas clears his throat and looks away, the breath Dean didn’t realize he was holding leaving him in a rush. “That’s beautiful,” Cas says, his eyes focusing on a sculpture that Sam insisted they nail to the wall over the front desk. 

     “Thanks,” Dean says, his cheeks heating. Cas steps forward, his eyes still locked on the shiny, dried clay. It is a flaming star, one that is supposed to symbolize a demon-free life. 

     “Is that a Benglis?” Cas asks, reaching a hand out to brush over the painted clay. Dean clears his throat. 

     “No, actually, that’s mine,” he says quietly, looking at the sculpture before him. He’d made it for Sam, that was why he’d insisted on it being hung here in the lobby where everyone would see. 

     “You did this?” Cas asks, awe in his eyes. Dean nods. “It’s beautiful. I didn’t know you sculpted.”

     “I don’t,” Dean says quickly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Not anymore. Not since Sam…” Cas’ face melts into sorrow, the universal face for sympathy that borders on not really caring. Dean looks away, and finally, Cas does the same. “I’ve gotta,” Dean starts, stepping away from the small world they’d found themselves in. “Go do…something.” Dean stutters as he steps away from Cas. He soon finds himself in the kitchen, breathing heavily and fending off the beginning of a panic attack. Food, he decides, forcing his breathing to slow and his stomach to settle. He’d known he’d been slacking on kitchen supplies, but he knows when he can’t even make himself a peanut butter sandwich that his kitchen has reached a crisis point. 

     “Cas,” Dean calls, his head stuck in the refrigerator. No response from Cas. “Cas,” Dean calls again, louder this time.

     “Yes, Dean,” he responds from directly behind Dean, startling him enough that the back of his head smacks against the top of the freezer. 

     “Damn it, Cas,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his head as he straightens up. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

     “You called for me,” Cas says, tilting his head in confusion. 

     “Yeah, but make some noise when you come up. I’m gonna have to buy you a cowbell to wear around your neck.”

     “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas responds with complete sincerity, looking slightly like a scolded child. 

     “It’s alright,” Dean says, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Hey, I just wanted to tell you I was about to go to the grocery store.”

     “I’ll drive you,” Cas offers the minute Dean gets the words out of his mouth. His words put Dean at a pause. 

     “I don’t need a babysitter, Cas,” he says, even though Baby isn’t in running condition so he _technically_ needs Cas to drive him. He lets the door to the refrigerator slip shut behind him. “I know where the milk aisle is.” Cas ignores the snark, choosing instead to respond to his first sentence.

     “Obviously you do,” Cas responds, leaning against the countertop next to Dean. 

     “What makes you say that?” he asks, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. 

     “I don’t trust you,” Cas says, staring Dean dead in the face with no trace of confusion or submission. Cas is determined to win this argument.

     “With grocery shopping?” Dean asks, his voice incredulous. 

     “With your life,” Cas says, still staring at Dean. Dean knows Cas has won. The doctor from the hospital already made it clear that, should he refuse to cooperate, he’d be readmitted, long-term this time. She had compared Cas to a sobriety sponsor, but instead, he’s a don’t-off-yourself-tonight sponsor. So he’s won, but Dean doesn’t have to go happily…or easily. He grits his teeth, swallows tensely, and heads out the front door with Cas following casually behind him.

     Dean slides into the front seat of Cas’ pimp mobile and knows the instant they get into town, he’ll be wishing for the Impala. (After his mallet fit, he refused to fix her, so she sits with a broken windshield, shattered headlights, and more dents, dings, and scratches than she could ever deserve.) As they roll towards Main Street, Dean finds himself watching Cas. The man is so focused on the road that he doesn’t even realize Dean is staring. Dean is taking in his sharp nose, his soft cheeks, his chapped lips. Dean knows Cas is attractive. Dean knows Cas is too good for him, so when Cas looks over at him, Dean averts his gaze with a blush on his neck. 

     It reminds Dean of the first boy he went to bed with. His name was Aaron, and he cornered a nineteen-year-old Dean in a bar and told him he’d seen Dean watching him. Aaron was older, wearing big, brown eyes and sporting a short beard that bothered Dean at how little it bothered him. Up until then, he’d only kissed women. (He refused to kiss the men he blew in sleazy alley ways. Kissing was different than what he gave them.) Up until then, he’d been used to soft skin against his jaw and strawberry-flavored lip gloss beneath his lips. Still, it wasn’t bad kissing Aaron. No, not at all. He had this tongue that, even on his more insecure and homophobic days, could get Dean to thinking about weird and slightly illegal sex with a man.

     Aaron had fallen quickly for Dean’s tough guy act and shining green eyes, sure that one day, Dean would give the act up and admit to caring about things. Aaron was in love, but for Dean, it was nothing more than sex. Dean, having been raised by his homophobic ex-marine of a father, refused to let himself have feelings for a man. That was gay, and Dean Winchester was not gay. However, making said man scream Dean’s name until he sounded like the girl John Winchester _wished_ his son was fucking…well, that was just having fun. 

     Once Aaron realized Dean only wanted sex, he’d called Dean every explicit name he could think of, left breaking everything in his path, and came back two nights later for the best angry sex of Dean’s life, while Sam slept just beyond the adjoining wall. Then, he left, and Dean never heard from him again. After Aaron, Dean dove into piles and piles of women, trying to convince himself that sex was sex, that he was straight, and that he’d remain straight until the day he admitted feelings for a man.

     A few weeks later, Sam had caught Dean giving some blond-haired boy head in the bathroom of the latest sleazy bar. Sam had made Dean sit and rationalize his behavior; he’d even supplied Dean with a word. _Bisexual._ It tasted like shit in Dean’s mouth. The word, however, didn’t seem to bother Sam. “You’re still my brother,” he had said. “I’d still do anything for you.” Even so, Dean had chosen not to label it. He liked relationships with hot women and sex with hot men. It was as simple as that. To this day, he’d only loved women; to this day, he’d refused to let himself develop feelings for men. 

     “Dean,” Cas says, pulling him yet again out of his thoughts. When he sees he has Dean’s attention, he continues. “We’re at the grocery store,” he says, deadpan. 

     “Oh,” Dean mumbles and shoulders his way out of Cas’ car. The two of them walk into the Vermont Mom & Pop grocery and turn heads of every gender. Dean bristles under the weight of it and can’t help but wonder how Cas feels about all the attention—specifically the feminine attention. He looks at Cas, hoping to learn something from his face or his stance—specifically if he’d rather be hitting dicks or chicks—but Cas seems oblivious to it all as he pulls a cart from the neat rows. Oblivious to all except Dean, that is. The minute Dean’s eyes land on Cas’ sex hair, Cas swings his gaze around and catches Dean very blatantly staring. The intensity of his eyes leaves Dean trapped yet again. 

     “Is something wrong, Dean?” Cas asks finally. 

     “No,” Dean chokes out, but that’s all he can manage. “Uh,” he tries, as Cas continues to stare at him, buggy in hand like a domestic housewife. “I’m gonna go…go get some mustard.” Dean shakes his head as he disappears from Cas’ laser gaze. “Mustard?” he asks, himself. “That was the best you could come up with?” Dean finds himself among the condiments, taking in the rows and rows of mustards. “You’re so lame,” he mumbles, as he scans them absently. 

     “You aren’t lame,” Cas says, appearing beside him in a blink and scaring the crap out of Dean yet again. 

     “Stop doing that,” Dean growls, attempting to be intimidating to compensate for the fact that he may or may not have gasped like a little girl when Cas startled him.

     “I apologize,” Cas says dismissively, his brow furrowed. “You aren’t lame, Dean,” Cas repeats, but Dean just scoffs. “You really should be nicer to yourself,” Cas adds at Dean’s scoff. 

     “If you think ‘lame’ is the worst thing I’ve called myself, you are sadly mistaken, friend.” Dean grabs a random bottle of mustard and puts in the buggy. He starts to walk away to escape Castiel’s pitying gaze, but Cas follows at his heels, relentless.

     “Dean,” Cas starts gruffly, but Dean shuts him down before he can begin. 

     “Don’t want to hear it, Cas,” Dean says, walking several strides ahead of Cas to avoid looking at him.

     “I was just,” Cas starts again, but again Dean interrupts again without even a glance in his direction.

     “You were just going to spit some inspirational bull about ‘raising my ideals of self-worth’ or ‘the power of positive thinking’, but this isn’t middle school, Cas. This isn’t a bad day. This is depression.” Dean finally turns to Cas, his eyes settled on the other man’s soft frown. “This is me living even though I’m dead inside. This isn’t something you can fix through a good cry, and it’s definitely not something _you_ can fix. You can’t save me, and the sooner you realize that, the better off we’ll both be.” Dean is angry now. He expects Cas to be angry. Dean _wants_ Cas to be angry. Making people hate him is his favorite form of masochism, but Cas just blinks at him. 

     “I’m sorry,” Cas says finally, his voice small compared to the angry boom of Dean’s. He knows the words are meant to console him, but instead, they send him spiraling into hostility.

     “Don’t fucking apologize,” Dean spits, ignoring each pair of eyes that turn his way at the sudden profanity. Cas hardens his gaze.

     “I’m trying to help you,” Cas says, his voice now like steel.

     “I don’t want your help,” Dean snarls, stepping closer to Cas and baring his teeth. Even though Dean has nearly two inches over him, Cas looks unaffected. If anything, he looks even more lethal, glaring as icily at Dean as he is. 

     “You need it,” Cas says, and the way he says it, the way Cas challenges him…It reminds Dean so much of Sam that he must stop and catch his breath before deciding that Cas’ decision to live with him will be the worst he’s ever made. The war begins now. 

     Dean stares at Cas a moment longer, as not to clue Cas in on his plan to win. Then he drops his gaze. They are still standing close enough that Dean can feel the release of Cas’ breath on his face. Dean doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns around and tries not to smirk as the plan to make Cas’ life a living hell falls into place.

     The unlikely pair proceeds to fill the buggy in silence, Cas setting in vegetables and fresh fruit while Dean sets in cheese puffs and doodle cakes. When they finally get to the counter, the girl can’t help but blush as she looks at them. As she reaches for the next of their items, Dean catches sight of the slim scars on her wrist. Step one to making Cas hate him: publically humiliate him. Dean silently apologizes to the girl before he starts his douchebag routine. He jerks his jacket sleeves up to his elbows before shoving his arms in her face. She reels a bit, and the look that crosses her face at sight and magnitude of both his scars and the more recent gashes is almost enough to make him stop. Of course, he is a selfish bastard that would rather risk this girl’s relapse than live with a man who is bent on keeping him alive. 

     “See this one,” Dean asks, pointing to one that is ancient, nearly faded into oblivion. The girl looks mortified. “I was seven. It was the first, and it had finally hit me that my mom was dead and my father would never love me.” The girl looks up to Dean with wide eyes. “Which was your first?”

     “ _Dean,_ ” Cas hisses, but he doesn’t know that is exactly the response Dean’s looking for. 

     “My thigh,” the girl murmurs finally, her voice barely a whisper. Their total is frozen at $50.31 though half of the items have yet to be scanned. 

     “Oh, one of my favorite places,” Dean says, his voice bright as he continues. “I have a whole thesaurus entry for the word _worthless_ on mine.” Dean smiles at girl as though they were discussing the new movie at the theater instead of self-harm. Tears line her perfectly made-up eyes, and she’s frozen in place. 

     “Stop it, Dean” Cas snarls, the anger barely hiding under his collected appearance. 

     “Why? We’re just talking, Cas,” Dean drawls, watching Cas from the corner of his eye with that dumb grin still on his face. 

     “You’re upsetting her,” Cas says tersely in his ear.

     “You’re not upset are you, sweetheart?” Dean asks, not bothering to glance at her name tag. He doesn’t give her the chance to respond before he’s starting in on Cas again. “This doesn’t concern you anyways,” he snaps, and Cas visibly recoils. 

     “Stop it, Dean,” Cas repeats, the anger sharpening his voice to the point of pain. 

     “Why? Because you told me to? Because you’re the boss and think you can control everything?”

     “Why are you acting this way?” Cas asks, his voice incredulous.

     “Because it’s what I do, Cas. I hurt people, so you might as well get used to it.”

     “You’re being petulant,” Cas snarls, seemingly unimpressed by Dean’s declaration. 

     “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” A man asks, interrupting their fight before Dean can start throwing punches. They look up to see a cautiously smiling man in place of their previous cashier. 

     “No,” Dean and Cas say simultaneously, Cas politely dismissive and Dean ever hostile. The man’s nametag reads _Manager,_ and the careful smile on his face shows he’s used to dealing with belligerent customers. 

     “Just a little spat,” Cas says, straightening himself and clearing his face of any sign of anger. 

     “Ah,” the manager says, visibly relaxing. “A lover’s quarrel,” he intones knowingly, stepping around to man the cash register. The words leave Cas and Dean speechless, prompting the man to take it upon himself to fill the silence. “How long have you two been together?” he asks as he scans each remaining item. Cas is still speechless, but Dean’s taste for biting sarcasm frees him. 

     “Too Goddamn long,” Dean says, which shakes Cas awake too.

     “Dean,” he says chidingly, but the manager merely laughs.

     “Ah, don’t worry. My husband would say the exact same thing on one of our more disagreeable days.” He bags the last of their items and looks expectantly to Dean who looks expectantly to Cas, working hard to hide his smirk. Cas rolls his eyes as he hands the manager his credit card.

     When the two make it outside, Dean fumbles for the next way to make Cas hate him. When they reach his car, Dean almost drops the armful of groceries as he tries to balance opening the door with his evil scheming. Cas sighs and opens it for him. It almost makes Dean sorry that he has made it his goal to ruin Cas. Even so, the angry silence between them on the way back to the library is thick.

     “What’s up your ass?” Dean asks, simply for the sake of being an asshole. 

     “You are, Dean,” Cas replies, clenching his fingers even tighter around the wheel. 

     “Ooh, kinky,” Dean starts, throwing at wink at Cas. “Sounds nice, but I’d like to buy you dinner fir—”

     “Stop it,” Cas interrupts. “Just stop it. You had that poor girl in tears back there.”

     “It’s not my fault she’s sensitive,” Dean says, wishing it hadn’t bothered him as much as it had to make that girl cry. 

     “You were talking about her self-harm scars! You were asking her to relive the darkest days of her life, and for what? To make a point at me?” 

     “You’re not going to make me feel bad,” Dean says, throwing open the door as they roll to a stop at the library. Cas jumps out after him, lengthening his stride to keep up with Dean. His voice follows Dean as devotedly as his footsteps do. 

     “I’m not trying to make you _feel bad_ ; I’m trying to make you see that what you did was _wrong._ ”

     “Everything I do is wrong,” Dean says, working frantically to unlock the door to escape Cas. “The sooner you realize that, the better off we’ll both be.” Until that moment, Cas had been fumbling his hands against Dean’s, trying to keep both him here and the door firmly closed before them. With those words though, he freezes, his hands slipping to his sides. 

     “Do you honestly believe that?” Cas asks, his voice suddenly small. 

     “Which part?” Dean asks, refusing to look at Cas as he _finally_ gets the door open.

     “That you can’t do anything right,” Cas says, still following Dean but no longer running. He knows Dean won’t run. 

     “Have you met me?” Dean asks with a scoff, still unable to meet Cas’ eyes. “I couldn’t even kill myself right.”

     “Dean,” Cas says, his voice still soft. 

     “Why do you care anyways? You don’t even know me.” Dean, as usual, won’t let Cas tell him some bullshit lie that it wasn’t his time or that he deserves to live.

     “You are worth saving, Dean,” Cas murmurs before turning to retrieve the groceries.


	4. Chapter 4

     After that first rocky day, Dean and Cas fall into an unspoken routine. They exist around each other. Cas works during the day; Dean puts off suicide to make Cas’ life hell for another night. They compromise to stay at Dean’s house during the week and Cas’ on the weekends, just to make sure the plants stay alive and his bee colony—the weirdo—doesn’t collapse. 

     For the first time since before Sam died, Dean spends his time thinking of things other than death. He thinks of new ways to annoy Cas, gross stuff like putting mayonnaise in his house shoes or little things like leaving the top off the toothpaste. Cas is unbreakable; instead, he is breaking Dean. In fact, he finds himself thinking of Cas’ face the first time he tasted Dean’s famous burgers. He thinks of his blue eyes lost in a book. He thinks of his laugh, his frown, and as much as he hates it, Dean finds himself caring—platonically, of course—for Cas. 

     It happens on a Thursday afternoon, nearly two weeks into their unspoken agreement. Cas brought dinner from Dean’s favorite Mexican restaurant, but they sit on the couch in lieu of the dinner table. Dean insists on watching _Star Wars,_ having made it his life’s mission—aside from killing himself and making Cas’ life a living hell—to educate Cas on the classics, be it movies, music, or cars. Dean is enveloped in Luke’s misadventure. Cas is enveloped his spicy enchiladas. Dean looks away from his movie to deliver a snarky, plot-related comment only to find the man staring lovingly at the food in his hands. He’s got salsa dripping down his chin, and in the darkness, Dean finds himself laughing at his unlikely best friend, honest to God laughing. 

     The sound is unfamiliar and startling to Cas, enough to pull him out of his loving gaze. When he realizes Dean is laughing because of him—at him, really—he fights off a pleased blush. As he laughs at Cas, Dean manages to forget his sadness, his masochism, and enjoy being with his friend, but the moment he realizes he’s allowed himself a moment of shining happiness, he shuts down. The laughter leaves him cold in an instant. 

     He stands abruptly, dropping his empty food container to the ground as he beelines for the stairs. Dean cuts his wrists for the first time in two weeks that night. “You killed Sammy,” he utters as the blade cuts into him. “You don’t deserve that happiness.” When he comes down the stairs the next morning, Cas has pancakes waiting for him in the microwave and a canister of coffee he knows has been brewed just the way he likes. There’s a note propped against the cup. 

      _Dean,_ he reads, having no difficulty deciphering Cas’ perfect, almost childlike script. _I apologize for upsetting you last night. That was not my intention. Please call me when you get a chance. I need to know you’re okay. From, Castiel_ Dean stares at the note in his hand for just a moment longer before rolling his eyes. “Dumb bastard,” he mumbles, but his hands are fumbling in his pocket for his phone. Cas lets it ring twice before his voice fills the empty air. 

     “Dean,” he breathes, obvious relief in his voice. 

     “Hey, Cas,” he says, picking at the scabs covering his latest cuts. “Thanks for the breakfast,” he says, pulling the plate from the microwave and slathering them in syrup. Cas’ light laugh tumbles through the line a second before his grumbling voice does. 

     “A gesture of solidarity,” he says in explanation. The two fall quiet, but Dean knows what is coming next. Cas is going to apologize for making Dean run off last night, not understanding what really happened, not understanding that all he really did was make Dean laugh. “I want to apologize for last night,” Cas says, just as Dean knew he would. 

     “Don’t apologize. It wasn’t you,” Dean says, frowning and picking at his pancakes rather than his scabs. 

     “Are you okay?” Cas asks, audibly tapping his fingers against the desk top. 

     “I’m fine,” Dean mumbles, his face heating as he works to brush off Cas’ concern. 

     “You don’t sound fine,” Cas says, thumping his fingers harder. “Do you need me to come home?”

     “I don’t need anything,” Dean snaps, but Cas only sighs.

     “I thought we were past you refusing my help,” Cas points out, and he’s right. Dean _had_ gotten past it…and that terrifies Dean. He’s started trusting Cas, and every time he realizes how lost he’ll be when Cas decides Dean is no longer worth it, he shoves Cas away. 

     “Apparently not,” Dean replies, a futile attempt to dissuade Cas.

     “That’s unfortunate,” Cas mumbles. “I’ll be there in sixteen minutes, twenty-one if there’s traffic.” The line cuts dead between them. Dean pulls the phone away from his ear with a sigh. 

     After it hits Dean that he’s starting to let his guard down, he loses his appetite, but he is still severely lacking in caffeine. When Cas comes in sixteen minutes later, he finds Dean sitting in the kitchen, half his coffee gone. Dean’s eyes sweep over Cas, taking him in with a languid and predatory gaze. The man is wearing the same trench coat he was when he found Dean half-dead in the street, the only difference being instead of a backward blue tie, he has a backward green one. 

     “Dean,” Cas calls as he sets his briefcase on the end table by the doors. From his seat at the kitchen table, Dean watches as Cas steps out of his shoes and hangs his trench-coat. 

     “Kitchen,” Dean calls, and Cas looks up to the section of the balcony the kitchen is in. 

     “I brought movies,” Cas says, and Dean literally has to restrain himself from smiling at the hope in Cas’ eyes. 

     Twenty minutes later, they sit shoulder to shoulder with a bowl of popcorn balanced on their knees. Cas is staring intensely at the TV, but Dean can’t help the glances he keeps stealing at the man next to him. 

     “Why are you here, Cas?” he asks, eventually, though he knows the answer. Cas doesn’t even look at Dean to respond. 

     “If you’re referring to this seat on the couch, it’s because we’re sharing popcorn,” he says, taking another handful for emphasis. “If you’re referring to why I’m here in the tapestry of life, I’m pretty sure it’s to edit terrible manuscripts and crush writer’s dreams.”

     “Is that what you do all day?” Dean jokes, swaying lightly into his friend’s shoulder. Cas finally looks to Dean, a smile ghosting across his full lips. 

     “I’m here because I want to be,” Cas says with a shrug. “I care about you.” Cas’ eyes command Dean’s attention, but eye contact is nearly too much to ask of Dean. To busy himself, he reaches into the popcorn, but Cas’ hand is already in the bowl. Their fingers brush and somehow lock, but like their eyes, Dean cannot find the will inside himself to break away. Cas gives Dean a soft smile, one that makes Dean gulp with the effort it takes not to feel the warmth spreading through him. Cas looks away after that, but their fingers stay linked in the popcorn bowl. 

     Dean later falls asleep with his knee pressed against Cas’, his fingers linked between Cas’, and his mind slowly betraying him by developing feelings for Cas. He wakes up a few hours later, that lazy and warm feeling cascading down him as he meanders into consciousness. He is unnervingly, undeservingly happy. That fact alone is enough to snap Dean from his half-daze and to his feet. Cas’ voice is wrecked as he calls out to Dean, and Dean is cold from all the places he isn’t touching Cas anymore, but he still takes the stairs two at a time to get to where he’s got in mind. His blades and his pills are in his room, but that isn’t where he’s headed. He has a much more intimate method of self-destruction in mind. 

     Sam’s room is exactly the way he left it, half a laundry basket of dirty plaid, laptop open in his desk, unfinished book waiting patiently on his nightstand. The room makes Dean ache, a bone-deep kind of hurt that is always there. Pictures of the two of them cover Sam’s desk, but Dean can hardly see them through his teary haze. 

     This is his personal torture, seeing all the places Sam should be but isn’t because of him. It’s Dean’s fault. All of it. Sam should be alive, and he isn’t because Dean screamed at him, made him leave, bought him that damned watch. Sam should be alive, and he isn’t because Dean didn’t protect him like he always swore he would. 

     “Why are you in here?” asks a gruff voice from behind him. Dean sighs, straightens his spine, and turns to Cas, setting his face for the rebuke.

     “This is where I come to jerk off,” Dean says, putting enough snarl into his voice to make it clear to Cas to leave it the hell alone. 

     “Dean,” Cas says softly, much too softly for Dean to believe he deserves even the smallest second of listening to it. 

     “Drop it, Cas,” Dean replies, his back to the blue eyed man in hopes that he won’t see Dean’s tears. Cas may not see Dean hurting himself, but Dean is breaking, and he deserves every solitary moment of it. 

     “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Cas asks, his voice pitying. 

     “Because this is what I deserve,” Dean snaps, spinning to face Cas, to let him see the tears, to let him know that there is _nothing_ he can do to stop this hurricane of depression from stealing Dean. “I don’t deserve to fall asleep with gorgeous guys holding my hand. I don’t deserve this said guy to worry about me. I don’t deserve him making apology breakfasts for something that wasn’t his fault. I don’t deserve him caring enough about me to rush home from work to check on me, and I sure as hell didn’t deserve to be saved that night, and damn you for doing it anyways.”

     “I saved your _life,_ ” Cas reminds, stepping closer to Dean.

     “I didn’t want,” Dean starts, his voice nearly a shout. 

     “I don’t care,” Cas screams, the tendons in his neck straining. “I don’t care that you didn’t want it! I did it anyways, and I don’t—I _won’t_ —regret it for a minute, so stop acting like your life is meaningless because it isn’t, not to me. I may not be much, but damn it, I’ve given you everything I know how to give. What else do you want, Dean?” Dean stares at Cas, and he can’t help but think that, in this moment of his consuming anger, Cas is unearthly beautiful. His are blaringly blue, his hair and tie occupying their constant state of disarray.

     “Fuck you, Cas,” Dean says, to which Cas scoffs. 

     “Oh, you have,” Cas says, a small, sadistic smile plastered on his lips. “You have fucked me over more times than I could count, and I’m sick of just sitting back and taking it. So tell me what you want from me, so I can help you.”

     “I want my brother,” Dean says, and Cas’ anger crumbles with the words. 

     “I can’t give you that,” Cas says gently, staring at the streaks Dean’s tears left on his face. He walks to him after a beat of silence, and the bed gives easily under his weight. Dean watches numbly as Cas reaches out and takes his hand. Their fingers fit together nicely, blunt nails meeting scarred knuckles. Dean stares at them for a moment before raising his eyes to Cas’. Cas is already watching Dean expectantly.

     “Then you aren’t enough,” Dean says quietly. He watches Cas long enough to see the undeniable hurt flit across his face before he slides his fingers from Cas’ and stands. “You never will be,” Dean says and watches again as hurt drowns Cas. _It’s all you’re good for,_ he reminds himself as he leaves Cas sitting alone on Sam’s empty bed. _Hurting people._


	5. Chapter 5

     For two days, Cas lets Dean sulk, and Dean lets Cas believe he isn’t enough to save Dean. Dean tries to make himself believe it too. He doesn’t want to care for Cas. He wants to be able to be alone and not hurt anyone, especially people he cares about. So he distances himself from Cas. He tells him things like he’ll never be enough and that he wishes he’d never saved him. He says things he knows will hurt Cas because he can see the way Cas is starting to care for Dean. He knows it is easier to hurt him now, to prove that Dean is not worthy of his affections, rather than to wait and hurt him as he hurts everyone, unintentionally and irreparably. He pushes Cas away as often as he can, but after Cas allows him two days of solitude, Dean is almost starved for the sound of that gravel voice. That alone should have been his warning to run, to save Cas before it’s too late. 

     Their reunion begins gradually. Cas has coffee waiting for him when he wakes up. The steaming mug alone excites awesome—in its truest meaning—ideas in Dean. Cas will work late, as he has for the past two nights, but perhaps they’ll sit together for dinner. Dean is not naïve enough to expect conversation, for he knows Cas was—is—genuinely hurt by Dean’s comment. Even so, just Cas’ downcast eyes would be better than the empty library that Dean had seen for the past fifty-eight hours, the past seven months. Cas had been there, sure. He would not let Dean be alone with his own suicidal devices even though Dean wants death. Cas, no matter how hurt and how angry, refuses to let Dean die. So, of course, Cas had been there, but he faded into the shadows, stayed in his borrowed room, and avoided Dean at all costs. The silence has been maddening. 

     Now though, Dean sips his hot coffee, hating himself for rejoicing in the fact that Cas is done with the silence.

     The wait for Cas to return home devours Dean. He finds himself anxious and restless before eventually finding himself staring at Baby’s broken headlights, her dented hood and her shattered windshield. Simply for something to do, Dean picks up his old toolbox and starts to fix what of her he can. When Cas gets home, he finds Dean waving his ass in the air as he changes the oil. 

     “I brought pizza,” Cas says, startling Dean so much that he smacks the back of his head on the car hood. 

     “Damn it,” he growls, rubbing at his head. “Why does that keep happening?” he asks himself, not expecting Cas’ input in the least. 

     “They say being jumpy is a symptom of a guilty conscience.” Cas leans against the garage door, watching Dean as he wipes his hands on a greasy rag. Cas’ gaze is heavy on Dean, the feeling alone making him itch with desire. In the two days since they last spoke, Dean has found himself more highly attuned to his downstairs friend than he had been since high school. Last night, he woke up hard because of a dream he had that Cas was sucking him off against the Impala. Since then, he’d been unable to get the image out of his head. Cas’ heavy gaze has Dean imagining all the ways he’d tear Cas apart.

     “Why are you looking at me like that?” Dean asks, slowly burning under Cas’ gaze. 

     “You looked content,” Cas says, his hip and shoulder pressed against the frame of the door. 

     “You couldn’t even see my face,” Dean counters, his brow cinching together in amusement to cover the obvious hunger.

     “You were humming,” Cas says, his voice refusing to match Dean’s lightness. He isn’t ready to forgive Dean yet. Dean stares at him a moment longer, working desperately to find a joke to tell Cas or a sarcastic comment to throw his way, but before he can get a word out that might symbol normalcy—whatever the hell that means—between them, Cas turns and leaves him alone in the garage. 

     “Humming,” Dean repeats stupidly. Dean hasn’t found himself humming since he and Lisa Braeden were living together while Sam was safe at school. Dean washes his hands, lost in thought. Cas, Dean sees when he gets to the main room, has gotten his share of dinner and escaped to somewhere Dean isn’t. 

     Dean stares at the half-empty pizza box, appetite suddenly gone. Dean finds himself climbing the stairs to Cas’ room before he can rationalize it as a terrible idea. Cas’ door is shut firmly, but Dean pushes it open anyways. Cas starts when Dean enters, his book falling shut on his desk next to his pizza plate. 

     “I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says, tossing his hands up in a gesture of sincerity. Cas, having gotten over his initial shock at seeing Dean in his room, wears a solemn and unshakable face. 

     “For what?” he asks, playing innocent, playing indifferent.

     “For being a dick,” Dean says, stepping forward into Cas’ room rather than straddling the threshold. Cas watches Dean, considering before he picks his book back up. 

     “Don’t worry about it,” Cas says, his voice indifferent. It’s almost believable, but Dean can see something in Cas’ eyes that doesn’t belong, something heavy and sad. 

     “Cas,” Dean murmurs, stepping closer, reaching out his hand to Cas. 

     “I said don’t worry about it,” Cas says coldly, refusing to look up from his book. Dean persists anyway, squatting down next to Cas’ desk chair. 

     “I’m trying to apologize, here.” Dean gives a half-hearted laugh, one that probably only makes him sound more pathetic. 

     “Fine. Apology accepted,” Cas says, looking blankly at the wall over his desk, book still open in his hands. 

     “But you don’t forgive me.” It’s not a question. Dean knows the answer.

     “No,” Cas agrees after a moment of silence. Even though Dean knew it, knew it was coming, it still makes him flinch. 

     “Cas, I,” he starts, reaching out and laying his hand gently on Cas’ shoulder. Cas immediately jerks away, the first sign he’s actually alive that Dean has seen all day. 

     “Please, don’t touch me,” Cas says, his façade crumbling slowly, beginning with the rasp in his voice. _Cas is breakable,_ Dean thinks grimly, his hand falling back to his side. 

     “Come on, Cas,” Dean says, looking up to Cas so their eyes are level. Even so, Cas refuses to look at Dean. 

     “Come on, what, Dean?” Cas finally meets Dean’s eyes. His calm façade has fully shattered beneath Dean’s provocation. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s ever lost someone. My parents don’t want to be associated with me. My brothers pretend I was never born, and I found my sister, the only member of my family who still claimed me and my _best friend_ , slaughtered. I _understand_ what you went through, but you treat me like I’m some invalid and won’t let me help.”

     “I don’t,” Dean starts shakily, but Cas already has his head to shaking. 

     “I don’t care,” Cas screams, slamming his book on his desk in anger. Dean breathes slowly, too startled to respond, to move, to think. Dean has never heard Cas sound so angry, but for one moment, he watches Cas fume, and the next, he watches it leave him. “Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” Cas asks, his gruff voice broken. 

     “Hurting you,” Dean murmurs, because that’s all he ever does. He cannot bring himself to meet Cas’ dizzyingly blue eyes for fear of the afore mentioned hurt he knows he’ll find there. Cas though, Cas will not stand for it. His hands startle Dean when they brush across his cheeks to settle under his cheekbones. Cas lifts Dean’s face, forcing their eyes to meet.

     “You’re saving me,” he murmurs, eyes bright. Dean’s fingers tighten on his thighs, anything to keep from leaning forward on the balls of his feet and kissing Cas. Once again, Cas won’t stand for it. He hauls Dean closer by the frame of his jaw, smashing their lips together so forcefully that Dean tastes blood. He doesn’t care. Cas doesn’t care. Cas is too busy licking into Dean’s mouth, taking him apart with each low moan he breathes into Dean’s mouth. Dean’s name sounds like a hallelujah between Cas’ lips. 

     “Cas,” he finds himself groaning, over and over. Dean can’t keep his hands off Cas. They’re pushing back his head, sliding into his hair, groping everything he can reach. 

     “Dean,” Cas murmurs, but the only attention he’s getting is that of Dean’s dick. Dean’s tongue is frantic in Cas’ mouth, but eventually, he moves down Cas’ jaw, sucking and nipping gently at the skin there. It doesn’t even bother Dean anymore that stubble feels like home. 

     “Dean,” Cas says again, more of a moan than a grab for his attention. Dean keeps moving against Cas, grazing his teeth up his neck to the sweet spot he knows awaits him behind Cas’ ear. The groan Cas lets out when Dean takes his earlobe into his mouth is enough to get Dean’s jeans constricting painfully, as if they weren’t already. Cas’ breath is hot on his neck, coming in panting bursts that do nothing to ease the delicious pain. He finds his way back to Cas’ mouth in a heartbeat, their tongues tangling deliciously. 

     “Cas,” Dean groans into the other man’s mouth. “Need you so bad,” he groans, though just a moment ago, they were fighting over how Dean didn’t need anyone. 

     “Dean,” Cas says, pulling away, but Dean merely shifts his attention to nipping and pulling at the tendons in Cas’ neck. “Dean,” Cas says again, pushing gently at Dean’s shoulders. Finally, Dean sits back on his heels and looks at Cas. The man before him looks more alive than Dean has ever seen him, eyes bright and blue, cheeks flushed, lips kissed swollen. _This man will ruin me,_ Dean thinks with a painful lurch of his heart. “Make love to me,” Cas says, his voice a rumble in Dean’s throat. He refuses to drop Dean’s eyes, something that usually intimidates Dean, but tonight, makes the tightness of his jeans damn near unbearable. 

     “I thought that’s where we were headed,” Dean says, surprised by how breathless his voice is. 

     “No,” Cas says, shaking his head. “You were about to fuck me. That isn’t what I want.”

     “Well, what _do_ you want?” Dean asks after a moment, staring at Cas, thinking of all the ways he’d love to ride that ass. When Cas leans forward, Dean is expecting the passionate push and pull from moments before, but when their lips meet, Cas is soft and hesitant, almost coy. Cas pushes his tongue against Dean’s in soft and gentle sweeps that send a very clear message of what he wants from Dean. They take their time tasting every inch of the other’s mouth after that. Dean finds his hands tracing Cas’ sides softly, and after a while, Dean decides that, despite his heterosexuality, he very much wants to be as close to Cas as possible in the gentlest way possible. Dean doesn’t want to fuck Cas at all. He doesn’t want to have sex with him, either. Dean wants to make love to this frantic haired, dreamy-eyed man curled under his fingertips. Dean pulls away from Cas long enough to spin his desk chair and pull Cas into his lap. Their kiss deepens as Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s middle. 

     “Dean,” Cas murmurs, but it isn’t to get his attention this time. It is that sweet hallelujah again, his lips trembling at the very utterance.

     Cas is flat against him. No boobs to cup, no curved waist to squeeze, and mostly, no pussy to worship. The thought doesn’t even faze Dean as he slips his hands under Cas’ shirt and pulls it over his head.

     When their lips meet again, Cas takes long, slow pulls of Dean, tasting every square inch of his mouth. He breaks away gasping, a moment of weakness that Dean uses to lay Cas back and slip his own shirt over his head. When Dean falls back on Cas, Cas gasps at the sudden heat of his skin. The sound nearly makes Dean frantic again, but he reminds himself, _slow, slow,_ as he kisses Cas, his own hallelujah. His lips trail down Cas’ neck. Dean is nipping at his jugular, skimming over his collarbone with his teeth, flicking his tongue against the tiny nipple he finds on Cas’ virtually hairless chest, eliciting a positively sinful groan from Cas. 

     “Jesus, Cas,” Dean moans as his jeans become unbearable. He sits back from Cas, his fingers fumbling stupidly at his belt. Dean cannot stay focused long enough to get his pants undone. His eyes keep flicking hungrily back to Cas, and every time he sees the mess he’s made of Cas’ hair or his flushed cheeks or his swollen lips, his fingers fumble even more erratically. “Damn it,” Dean growls after his fourth failed attempt. Cas laughs and sits forward, his hands gently pushing Dean’s out of the way so he can undo his belt. It comes undone for Cas the first go round. 

     “You’re too eager,” Cas says, grinning as his fingers slip under the waistband of Dean’s jeans and underwear. 

     “Oh, like you aren’t eager,” Dean growls, reaching out and brushing the bulge of Cas’ jeans, earning himself an involuntary hip jerk from Cas in response. Dean grins before pulling Cas to him by his belt loops. 

     Cas’ mouth lands on Dean’s neck, to which he takes full advantage of, sucking hickey after hickey, leaving Dean unable to think anything but _fuck, fuck, fuck. Pants in the way._ The thought alone is enough to get Dean’s hands working together. His fingers fumble on Cas’ jeans before pulling them down while shimmying out of his own. With their pants elsewhere, the men slot together at their mouths, their legs, their arms. At the first drag of cotton against Dean’s swollen dick, he groans against Cas’ neck. Cas grins knowingly, before rolling on top of Dean as though that’s where he’s belonged his whole life, as though he knew being underneath a hot guy turned Dean on something fierce. Cas kisses a trail down Dean’s chest, nips across his collarbone, tugs at his nipples, before licking down his happy trail. When his mouth falls level with the waistband of his boxers, he looks up through his lashes, waiting for an invitation he doesn’t need to continue living Dean’s wet dream. Dean gulps. 

     Cas slips his tongue under the elastic before drawing it between his teeth. Dean’s attention is rapt. Cas’ lips brush the entire length of Dean’s shaft, his teeth grazing occasionally, making Dean groan. When Cas finally gets Dean’s boxers off, he locks eyes with Dean, refusing to let him go as he licks his lips. Dean is practically trembling with anticipation as Cas’ tongue flicks out. He brushes it over Dean’s head before licking into his slit, tongue now slick with spit and precome. Cas presses harder into Dean before pulling off. Dean almost sighs with relief. It would be exceedingly embarrassing if Dean came after just a little slit action on their first time fooling around. Cas, however, does not seem to want to make it easy for Dean. No, of course not. Instead of retreating to Dean’s mouth or even neck, Cas takes Dean down in one delicious swallow. 

     “Cas,” Dean hisses, fisting his hands into Cas’ hair to keep from fucking up into his mouth. Cas is already working his throat around his head, his tongue signing his name along his shaft, and despite how much Dean really, _really_ wants to, there’s no sense in choking the poor man. Cas pulls off suddenly with a loud pop.

     “Problem?” Cas asks with a smirk playing under deceptively innocent eyes. His lips are slick, a string of spit hanging from the bottom of his lip to the head of Dean’s awaiting cock. 

     “Oh, fuck you,” Dean growls, devastated and relieved at the loss of the heat on his cock. Cas grins and takes Dean down again, not as deep as before but with a rhythm that is maddeningly relentless. Dean watches Cas’ mouth suck him down again and again for as long as he can before he feels the heat tighten in his stomach. Cas looks positively scandalous from Dean’s line of sight, his lips stretched tightly around Dean’s prick, head bobbing in time with the hungry and delighted noises he’s making around Dean.

     “Cas, I’m gonna,” Dean pants before he can come, and oh, the restraint it takes to even do that. It would be fucking amazing to come in Cas’ mouth, to watch him lick his lips after he swallowed every single bit of Dean’s come, but no, Dean has a better idea. Cas lets Dean pant for a moment longer before he shifts and presses his tight little ass against Dean’s pulsing cock. Even through his boxers, Dean can see how hard Cas is. Cas begins rocking slowly against Dean, that smirk still on his lips. 

     “Oh shit,” Dean groans, his fingers digging into Cas’ hipbones. Dean lets Cas grind on him for another moment before he rolls them over, nearly slamming Cas’ head back on the floor. “Not so smug now are you?” Dean growls against Cas’ ear. Dean’s hands slip down Cas’ sides, watching hungrily as the chill bumps form on his skin. As Dean’s fingers drag over his hips, Cas gives a small twitch that brings a smile to Dean’s swollen lips. “You’re ticklish?” Dean teases, but Cas will not stand for it. He rolls them again, their fronts pressed together down the entire length of their bodies. Dean doesn’t let Cas have the advantage for long before he flips them yet again, pinning Cas’ hips with his knees. His hands move frantically, working to get Cas’ boxers off. Cas wriggles helplessly under Dean, licking his lips and lifting his hips against Dean’s ass, rubbing his stiff prick to give him something to do.

     “Stop that,” Dean growls, shifting so Cas’ boxers finally come off. The sight of Cas’ swollen, leaking cock sends a pulse to Dean’s own anxiously awaiting dick. Dean grins down to Cas before sucking at Cas’ hipbones hard enough to leave a bruise. He moves his kiss to the left, closer to Cas’ cock. Another bruise there. He moves down, nipping at the tendon of his groin before finally pulling Cas’ head into his mouth, savoring his musky, salty taste. Dean’s always had a thing for giving head. He likes the little whimpers, the agonized groans, but mostly, the blunt nails scraping his shoulders or his scalp as he works his tongue around the other man’s cock or rolls his balls against his teeth or licks into his ass. Cas, much to Dean’s delight, is very vocal as he gets sucked off, and when Dean lifts his hips to get at Cas’ ass, the man actually lets out a small shriek. Dean traces his tongue around Cas’ hole, enjoying every small tremble and pant Cas gives for his efforts. 

     Dean lets Cas writhe for a moment before he slowly pushes his tongue inside of him. Cas gasps and jerks, but Dean is ready for it. Men always jerk when they aren’t expecting penetration, and Dean has been fooling around long enough to know. Dean’s hands grip Cas’ hips to hold him still and pushes his tongue further in. This time, Cas lets out a quiet moan but holds still. Dean pushes in and out of him, laps at his insides, all the while, his cock still achingly hard. He does this until Cas gasps his name, a simultaneous plea and praise. With a small smile, Dean draws back his tongue and raises his eyes to Cas. The man looks acceptably wrecked. 

     “I want you inside of me,” Cas whimpers, and never has a man sounded hotter than when Cas utters those words. Dean pulls himself up to Cas, braces his arms on either side of him, and looks into those blue eyes. 

     “What do you want?” Dean asks, glancing down to Cas’ lips so he can watch the dirty requests form. Cas’ eyes gleam. 

     “I want you to ravage me.” Cas’ voice is a growl, a grumble that sounds like pure sex. He hauls Dean closer by the shoulders as he speaks. “I want you to push into me so hard that I scream. I want to be sore for days.” Dean’s dick throbs at the very idea of seeing Cas limping around tomorrow because of all that Dean will do to him tonight. “I want you balls deep in my ass as you come. I want you to scream my name so loud the neighbors three blocks down think you are dying.” Dean watches in awe as the filth falls from between the lips of this perfectly manicured man. “I want you as wrecked as I am.” Cas brushes his lips over Dean’s again, and Dean is grateful. Had Cas kept it up, Dean might have come right then and there. “Please,” Cas adds after a moment of Dean trying to regain control of the situation. Cas pulls Dean closer so softly that he remembers Cas’ earlier request. Dean catches Cas’ lip between his teeth and tugs a bit, murmuring around it. 

     “Thought you wanted to ‘make love,’” Dean says, trying to joke to cover his apprehension at the words. 

     “I just want you, Dean,” Cas says quietly, staring levelly into Dean’s eyes. “Anyway you’ll have me.” Dean’s heart jumps, but he kisses Cas anyways, long and slow and deep. Cas pulls at Dean gently, tearing him slowly, destroying him entirely. 

     “Let’s go to my room,” Dean mutters into Cas’ mouth.

     “What’s wrong with my room?” Cas teases against Dean’s earlobe.

     “No lube,” Dean says, reaching down and giving Cas’ dick a perfectly timed squeeze. The way it has the words falling from between Cas’ lips is enough to keep him pulling until Cas is trembling. 

     “Your room,” Cas agrees with a gasp.

     “Good boy,” Dean laughs, stopping and relishing the way Cas practically collapses against Dean. Dean pulls the slighter man to his feet with a grin, kissing Cas’ swollen lips. They are both naked, but neither is ashamed. Cas’ ass sways slightly as he makes his way to the door, so much so that Dean cannot seem to stop himself from reaching out and slapping it. Cas jumps slightly before turning and slamming Dean into the wall, his lips frantic against Dean’s jaw, his neck, his mouth. They shove and lick and grope each other until the back of Dean’s knees knock against the edge of the mattress. He hadn’t even realized they were moving. The pair falls—half-giggling—into the bed, Dean somehow twisting them so that Cas is on his back beneath Dean. Cas’ hands trail over Dean, brushing his shoulders, his ribs, and mostly his ass. Cas’ gaze is adoring, worshiping even. 

     “You’re so beautiful,” Cas murmurs, bringing his hands around front to stroke Dean’s face. Dean rolls his eyes, but really, his face heats exactly as he was afraid it would. Dean has been called beautiful his whole life, and it used to bother him. His beauty has always caused more problems that it solved. His father had always resented him for it. Harboring his mother’s soft lips and delicate nose was always dangerous for Dean after John had been drinking. Sometimes, after John downed two bottles of Jack or several cases of beer, Dean would be forced to go back to school with his beautiful eyes black or his beautiful lips split, swearing the other guy looked worse. Dean just looked too much like his dead mother for his widowed father’s liking. 

     Of course, drunken John was familiar, something Dean could handle. When the other eighth grade boys refused to let Dean on the JV lacrosse team because “pretty boys can’t play lacrosse,” Dean didn’t know how to handle it. He’d gone home, hung out with Sam, and decided that team sports were lame anyways, not that he would ever be in a town long enough to establish athletic credibility anyways. As he got older, it only got worse. He’d move to a new town, and the boys would tease him to prove their dominance because the girls were enticed by the pretty new boy. Some even got physical, but by then, Dean had perfected the art of street fighting. Dean broke at least one nose at every new school, but after that, the girls only swooned harder and the guys just glared. Once he dropped out, Dean realized that he could play beauty _and_ the beast. He’d been using his good looks as a weapon for nearly two months before that night behind the bar. 

     “You’re the beautiful one,” Dean says to Cas, nosing against Cas’ jaw in delight. Cas hums softly. 

     “No, I’m not,” Cas says, looking up from his place under Dean’s braced arms. Dean pulls away from Cas to stare into his dazzlingly blue eyes. 

     “You’re kidding right?” Dean asks, pecking Cas softly. Cas blinks in confusion. “Cas,” Dean says, letting his weight press down Cas’ front. They are both still painfully hard. “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” Dean’s voice is earnest, but Dean is not really surprised to find himself completely truthful. Something about Cas is practically forcing the truth out of Dean. 

     “You’re just saying that.” Cas’ voice is a growl beneath Dean, but Dean cannot help but relish the vibrations. 

     “Let me show you,” Dean says, his voice soft. Dean kisses Cas slowly, licking into his mouth slow enough so that when their tongues finally meet, Cas lets out a low gasp. Dean, after a few moments—or hours, who can really tell?—of this sweet torture, finally pulls away and gazes at the flushed man beneath him. He loses himself in those blue eyes, and Cas lets him stare, lets him take in every glorious inch of his body. Cas trusts Dean enough to bare his entire existence and leave it out for Dean to judge. Finally, Dean smiles. The damn thing is so out of place, out of character that Cas can only stare. “Beautiful,” Dean deems with that crooked grin. Cas finally returns his smile, which Dean cannot help but kiss before he reaches out to the drawer he keeps his neglected lubes. Cas nuzzles against Dean’s neck while Dean manages to get a generous helping of slick lube into his hand. He lets Cas do his thing, trying very hard not to get sidetracked by the gentle nipping and pushing of Cas teeth. Dean reaches down and strokes himself loosely, slathering his cock and fingers before finding the will to stop the slow delight. With his cock hard and slick, Dean pulls off Cas and stares straight into those blue eyes. 

     “Are you ready?” Dean asks Cas quietly. In reply, Cas kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean finds himself nervous, something he hasn’t felt during sex since his first time with Aaron. Dean tentatively reaches down and pulls on Cas before letting his fingers brush over and behind his balls. He holds eye contact with Cas as he pushes a single lubed finger in, stroking his collarbone with his free hand as Cas lets out a small gasp. Dean pushes his finger in and out a few times, hooks it left and right, searching until Cas arches up beneath him with a gasp. Dean smiles and adds another finger, scissoring him open until every time Dean brushes over that small mound inside Cas, a whimper and moan falls from between Cas’ lips. 

     “Dean, I’m ready, please,” Cas whimpers, reaching out a hand and wrapping it in Dean’s hair. Dean fingers Cas a moment longer before sliding out of him and kissing him gently. 

     They do it face to face, Dean pushing in and out of Cas slowly, Cas’ legs wrapped around Dean’s middle, his hands threaded through Dean’s to give them both something to hold onto. Cas moans the whole time; each thrust Dean gives him, Cas gives a grunt or a moan back. Dean loves it. He loves knowing that Cas is feeling him, is being filled by him. Cas’ face is glorious, the very embodiment of the beauty Dean was trying to get him to see in himself, and when he comes in hot spurts on Dean’s stomach, that is the last straw for Dean as well. He comes in Cas with a low groan and lets his head fall to Cas’ chest. When Dean slips out of Cas, they _both_ whimper at the loss.


	6. Chapter 6

     Dean doesn’t know exactly when he falls asleep, but he knows the moment he wakes up wrapped around Cas—before his heterosexuality can slap him in the face—that he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. 

     “Dean,” Cas murmurs, mouthing along Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean grunts in response. “Dean,” Cas murmurs again, his hands gentle on Dean’s bare side.

     “Cas, I can’t go again just yet,” Dean grumbles, to which Cas snorts. 

     “You’re like a dog in heat. You could go again.” Cas’ voice is teasing, gentle, and yeah, sex with Cas doesn't sound so bad, especially with Cas' warm weight pressed against Dean's back. It reminds Dean that he shouldn’t have it, that he should not be wrapped in the arms of a beautiful man after just having sex with him. Even so, Dean doesn’t move. He stays encased in Cas’ warmth, allowing himself one selfish moment of happiness. “Someone’s at the door,” Cas says, his nose behind Dean’s ear, the warmth of his breath stirring Dean slightly. 

     “Who is it?” he asks, tightening his hold on Cas because he knows the moment he lets go, Cas’ll run, and Dean won’t blame him for an instant. Cas shrugs. Dean debates letting it go unanswered. It’s probably just the Jehovah’s Witnesses looking to sell him some shit that won’t bring his brother back. 

     “Maybe it’s the Girl Scouts,” Cas suggests softly. “I could go for some Peanut Butter Patties.” To accent his desire for cookies, Cas bites Dean’s shoulder playfully. Dean snorts and rolls away from Cas. 

     “You like Peanut Butter Patties?” Dean asks, looking at the blue-eyed man in his bed.

     “What about it?” Cas asks, rolling onto his back to watch Dean. Now that he’s awake, the knocking downstairs is loud. He’s shocked he slept through it. Ever since Sam…well, when he sleeps— _if_ he sleeps—it isn’t very deep or rejuvenating, to say the least. 

     “I just pegged you as a Thin Mint kind of guy,” Dean tells Cas with a grin as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes absorb every inch of flesh Dean shows before slipping on his t-shirt. 

     Dean makes his way downstairs with his spirits reasonably high for a man with crippling depression. It could have been the sex, but Dean has a feeling that it was the way Cas looked at him. It was like he wasn’t lacking. It was like Dean was everything Cas needed. It was like Dean was finally enough. 

     By the time Dean makes it to the bottom of the stairs, it is clear that the visitor isn’t a Girl Scout or a Jehovah’s Witness. The knocking is too demanding, and the screams coming from the other side are far too angry. 

     “Dean!” The voice screams, banging harder against the wood. “I know you’re in there! I can see the Impala in the garage!” Through the glass of the door, Dean can see that her blonde hair is pulled back from her face, and he can see that her blue eyes are angry, furious even. “Dean!” Her fist against the door is rapid, and Dean knows that if he waits any longer to open the door, she’ll break it down to get to him. Dean pulls open the door, and Jess stops her attack on the door long enough to launch an attack on Dean, beginning with slapping his chest a few times before roping her thin arms around his stomach. 

     “Damn you, Dean,” Jess says, tears staining her voice. Dean’s response to hug her back is automatic, natural. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Do you not know how to pick up a phone? Damn you. I thought you…” Her voice, muffled against Dean’s shirt, trails off, but Dean knows what she means.

     “I did,” Dean tells her blonde hair. He always thought she looked better with her hair up. It allowed more of her sweet face to show, but he could tell she felt exposed with her hair up. When she was with Sam though, she wore her hair up more often. She pulls away from Dean now, her eyes frantic. “I tried to at least.” 

     “Dean, you said you’d call if it ever got bad.” Jess’ voice is sweet, childlike, the same voice she had as the innocent fifteen-year-old in love with his dorky brother. 

     “It’s always bad.” Dean’s voice isn’t the same as it was ten odd years ago. He has been hardened by life, or his brother’s lack thereof. Jess’ face falls. 

     “I know,” she says, her grip like steel around Dean’s middle. 

     “Jessica, I love you like my own sister. I do, but you don’t know.” Dean pulls Jess’ arms off him, but her eyes remain stony against his. 

     “I lost him too, Dean,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes are glassy, red from the tears forming. 

     “I know you did,” he says. Her tears have turned him to stone. Her tears have always turned him to stone. At Sam’s funeral, Jess’ tears against Dean’s shoulder made Sam’s death real. They made the nightmare he was living a reality. 

     “Why didn’t you call me?” she asks, and Dean smiles a joyless smile.

     “What could you have done?”

     “Helped.” Her voice holds such conviction that Dean almost regrets knocking it down. 

     “I don’t need help,” he says, stepping away from her a bit. He’s getting ready to turn his back on her, and she knows it. She grabs his arm before he can move.

     “You tried to kill yourself, Dean. It seems like you need help to me.” Her voice is insistent, her eyes, worried.

     “Can you bring Sam back?” A punch to the gut that, judging by the way she flinches, she feels in its crippling entirety. 

     “Would we be alone if I could?” Her voice is small again, not the voice of a woman who is confident that she is right, that she is unstoppable. 

     “Then there’s nothing you can do for me, Jess.” She laughs a humorless laugh.

     “You can play that game with the whole world, Dean, but it doesn’t fool me. I can see straight through your act, always.” She stops to watch Dean, to measure his semblance, but Dean is infallible. 

     “It was great to see you, Jess,” Dean says, and it hurts him a little to say the words. She is the only living thing left of Sam. The rest is limp clothes and stale books. In Jess, Dean swears he can see Sam. 

     “Fuck you, Dean, you swore,” she says, jabbing her finger into his sternum, never one to be easily dismissed. 

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, swiping her wrist away from his chest. 

     “Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, and he did. He swore he wouldn’t do anything stupid. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest after the funeral, unmovable. She refused to go back to her beautiful life hundreds of miles away in California until Dean swore that he wouldn’t do anything stupid without her. She made him swear that he would call every week, for his benefit, of course, but Dean saw through it. She needed what was left of Sam in Dean as much as Dean needed what was left of Sam in her. 

     For months, he called her every Saturday between her noon lunch with her mother and her 4:30 yoga class, but when Dean realized that the calls became Dean needing her more than she was needing him, he made the conversations short, just long enough to let her know he was still alive. Once, he skipped a Saturday, just to see if she cared as much as she said. She didn’t call, and it hurt Dean more than he would like to admit. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Sam was the only one who ever stuck around, and now that he’s gone, Dean has no one. 

     “Hey, Dean, will you get some Peanut Butter Sandwiches too?” Cas’ voice is oblivious to the small drama unfolding beneath him. His footsteps resonating down the metal stairs are rapid, as though he were half jogging. “I don’t remember which were the ones that I…” He stops mid-sentence when he sees that Dean isn’t buying Girl Scout cookies. He is wearing a pair of Dean’s sweatpants that are obviously too big for him, but he also seems oblivious to the waistband hanging too low on his hips. “Oh,” he says, reaching up to flatten his bed/sex hair. For a moment, Dean flashes back to Cas’ tight ass, the hallelujah of his name falling from between Cas’ lips. Dean _definitely_ doesn’t blush. “I didn’t know we had company.” Jess’ eyes cut to Dean and back to Cas before she jerks her wrist from Dean’s grip with a sufficient evil eye his way. 

     ‘I’m Jessica,” she says, stepping towards Cas with her hand outstretched and her perfectly disarming smile. “I was Sam’s fiancé.” Dean flinches at his name, as he always does, as he always will.

     “I’m Castiel, Dean’s—”

     “Roommate, he’s my roommate,” Dean interjects, looking to Cas with eyes that plead for him to go along, but Cas’ smile never falters as he stretches out his hand to Jessica. 

     “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Cas says, those wide blue eyes taking in every second of what’s happening. 

     “Likewise,” Jess says, releasing Cas’ hand with one last charming smile before turning back to Dean. “So, big brother, where’s my room?” Jess’ smile is teasing now that she’s looking at Dean, so much so that Dean almost thinks her words are a joke.

     “Depends on what motel you’re staying at,” he says with a smartass grin. Jess scoffs and turns to the front door still hanging wide open behind them. Three matching bags, decorated with Burlington International Airport paraphernalia, sit side by side under the library’s awning, teasing Dean with all they imply. 

     “Oh, come on, Dean. You aren’t going to make sweet Jess sleep in a dirty motel room are you? Not after she flew all the way from California just to check on your sorry ass?” Her voice is teasing. She knows she has won. 

     “I ain’t carrying your bags for you,” he grumbles and watches with delight as she rolls her eyes and turns to get her bags. Dean smirks and turns on his heel, nearly running into Cas who was hovering unannounced at his elbow. Dean stops just short of bumping him, bringing them nearly nose to nose. 

     “Sorry, Dean,” Cas murmurs, looking down to Dean’s lips. Heat washes over Dean. _This isn’t right._ Dean thinks as the blush creeps up the back of his neck. _Last night was a onetime thing._ Cas smiles softly before moving to allow Dean access to the stairs. Dean tries to remind himself that fucking Cas…fuck, he didn’t _fuck_ Cas. He made love to the man. Dean tries to remind himself that doing… _that_ with Cas didn’t mean that they had anything. It didn’t mean that anything was different than it was before it happened…aside from the fact that before it happened, Cas refused to speak to Dean. So…what? Pretend like nothing ever happened at all? Pretend the fight never happened so subsequently the make-up sex never happened? 

     Dean decides it’s as good a plan as any while picturing the low ride of Dean’s sweats on Cas’ hips. Dean is distracted as he leads Jess up the stairs, so much so that instead of putting her in the third bedroom to the right, he puts her in the second bedroom to the right…Sam’s room. 

     “Smells like him…” she comments numbly, letting her bags fall to the ground.

     “Jess, I’m so sorry. I meant to put you in the third on the right. Come on, we’ll,” Dean’s voice is frantic, determined to save her the pain of this room, the ghost that isn’t here.

     “No, I want to stay.” She smiles up at Dean, but the tears are lining her eyes like make-up. “Could I just have a minute?” Her voice is shaking. He’s too late to stop the pain. Damn it, all he ever does is hurt people. 

     “Sure, Jess,” he says, leaning down and putting a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” 

     “Thanks, Dean,” she says, stepping towards Sam’s bed. Even from this distance, Dean can see the emptiness growing in her. He watches a moment longer than he should to document another reason he deserves to die. _Made Jess remember that her boyfriend, fiancé, best friend, soul mate, is dead._

     Cas is in the kitchen when Dean gets there, the back of his knees touching the edge of the counter he sits on. His long fingers are wrapped around a mug of something steaming. 

     “I made coffee,” he says as Dean skirts around his gently swinging feet. 

     “Caffeinated?” Dean asks as he searches for a cup. 

     “I don’t think I want to see you on decaf,” Cas says with a smile. A cup appears before Dean, attached to Cas’ outstretched hand. 

     “You’re probably right,” he sighs, reaching for the mug Cas has stretched toward him, but before his fingers can close around it, Cas jerks it away playfully. Dean looks up to the amusement in Cas’ eyes, has half a mind to get a cup that Cas isn’t teasing him with, and reaches for the cup again. The giggle that escapes Cas’ lips when he jerks it away again is enough to light a spark of amusement in Dean. “You’re a child,” he comments, reaching for it again, stepping closer to Cas. 

     “I’m a grown man, thank you,” he says, wrapping his legs around Dean’s hips, reeling him closer, cup forgotten. 

     “Don’t I know it,” Dean says with a wink, planting his hands on the outside of Cas’ thighs. 

     “Kiss me,” Cas says, his voice light, completely unlike the man who’s been ghosting around the library for the past two days. This is a side of Cas that Dean’s never seen, a trusting and carefree one, one that is just asking to get his heart broken. Who better to break a heart than the master himself? Dean looks into Cas’ excited blue eyes before reaching out and slipping the mug from his hands. Dean sets the cup to the side, not to be forgotten about, and takes Cas’ hand in both of his. He brings the back of Cas’ hand to his lips. 

     “You’re blocking the coffee pot,” Dean says against Cas’ hand. The movement is too sweet to stop, too sought after to tear away from Dean. He cannot force himself to let Cas go. 

     “You’re a tease,” Cas says, and those eyes…those eyes. Dean kisses him softly. He cannot help it. He should send Cas running. He wants Cas to have a clean break, but he kisses him anyways. He wraps his fingers into that hair and pulls those lips against his and he kisses him. 

     “You’re blocking the coffee pot,” he says again, pulling away from Cas and watching with as much disgust at himself as amazement at Cas as he sits with his eyes closed, obviously reliving the feeling of Dean’s lips on his. Cas scoots absently to the left so Dean can get his fill of caffeine. Once his mug is full, Dean sits at the little breakfast table, sipping absently, cultivating ways to tell Cas that they cannot be, that _Dean_ cannot be what he wants him to be. 

     Jess joins them after a few moments of the only sounds being the slurping and sipping of coffee. Her make-up is pristine, her smile, flawless. 

     “So, Castiel, tell me about yourself,” she says, pulling a knee up to her in the chair across from Dean. Cas, in the presence of Jess, is back to being careful and mature. He does not flirt with Dean. He does not let on that just hours earlier, Dean’s name was a hallelujah between Cas’ lips. He is perfectly respectable, likeable, perfectly Cas. 

     “There’s not much to tell, really,” he says with a laugh, kicking his feet absently again. 

     “Well what about how you ended up stuck with Deanie, here,” Jess says, kicking Dean playfully under the table. Dean smiles into his coffee before looking up to Cas. Cas, however, is already looking to Dean for guidance. 

     “He’s my suicide sponsor,” Dean tells Jess with a roll of his eyes. 

     “Oh,” Jess says, after flinching only minimally at the word suicide. “Are you a social worker?” 

     “No, I’m an editor for a publishing company.” The tendons in Cas’ neck strain deliciously when he speaks, Dean notices. 

     “Then how’d you get stuck with Dean?” Jess asks with a teasing smile that Dean doesn’t see. He’s too busy watching Cas’ lips form around the edge of his cup. Dean is studying Cas’ face like it holds the meaning of life.

     “I was the one who found him after he jumped,” Cas says, his eyes locked on the coffee in his hands. He looks sad, haunted even. 

     “So you saved him,” Jess says after a beat, and Cas looks up from his cup. Dean looks fascinated back and forth between the two. “Thank you,” she says, keeping her eyes locked on Cas. After a moment of their staring war, Dean clears his throat. 

     “I’m right here, you guys. If y’all want to talk like I’m not in the room, I’ll gladly go somewhere else.” His words are harsh, but both of them know him well enough to know it is just to get the attention off his suicide attempt. Jess comes to the rescue first with a big snort of a laugh. 

     “You’re cute! You think that we need you gone to talk bad about you.” She says it like a question, and without waiting for a response to her rhetorical question, she dives off into some story of Dean at eighteen.

      “So Sam and I are on the couch with like four feet between us. I was terrified. He was terrified, but Dean comes in sits between us, looks to Sam, looks to me, looks back to Sam, and kisses me straight on the mouth.” Jess is laughing as she tells the story. It was a funny story, but one that requires Sam to be beside them, or to be at complete peace with the fact that he’s not. The fact that she can tell it while laughing means that the phone calls really were just for Dean’s benefit. He’s the only one still struggling with Sam’s absence. “So he looks to Sam and says, ‘Your turn.’” She laughs even harder. Even Dean smiles, but he is not a good person to tell Sam stories to. His death is still too raw, forever too raw. Cas, on the other hand, moved to the chair beside Dean after her third story and laughs his full-bellied laugh at every single funny moment. 

     “So, did he kiss you?” Cas asks, and Jess nods.

     “He didn’t even make me brush my teeth first.” Dean snorts at this. 

     “Like anyone could ever make _you_ do anything you didn’t want to,” Dean says with a half smile.

     “Oh, you’re one to talk,” Cas butts in with a grin at Dean, one that Dean cannot help but return. 

     “I’m very accommodating,” Dean says, and Cas laughs aloud.

     “Right, and I’m a bumble bee.” They sit grinning at each other until Jess reminds them both that she is there, that she is witnessing it all. They roll their eyes at each other before turning back to her. 

     “So,” Cas says to Jess with his warm smile filling his face. “You went to Stanford.” He says it like a question, but it leads to a widespread discussion of college education and liberal arts bachelor degrees versus civil philosophy master degrees. Dean just watches Cas through the conversation. He watches his lips, his eyes, his laugh. He watches Jess some too, but watching her laugh makes him think of Sam, and he doesn’t want to think of Sam, because thinking of Sam means thinking of Sam dead, and Sam’s death is something that ruins things like the small seed of happiness Cas has planted in Dean. Dean knows he doesn’t deserve this, but God, does he want it. 

     “Right, Dean?” Cas’ voice draws Dean out of his revere. 

     “What?” he asks dumbly, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind repeating himself.

     “You started fixing your car again, didn’t you?” Dean nods. 

     “I’m surprised you let it get broken down in the first place,” Jess says, pushing her knee against Dean’s. “The Impala is the only thing Dean really cares about.” Her voice is light and teasing, meant to draw him out of whatever dark place Dean is about to slip into. 

     “It’s true,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Everything else is irrelevant.”

     “Even pie?" Cas asks, his eyes big and blue against the slight tan of his face. Dean laughs aloud at his words. 

     “You’re funny, Cas.” Dean finds himself grinning at Cas, because of Cas more and more. Jess snorts, knowing the fact that she snorts instead of laughs makes her no less attractive.

     “Alright, boys, not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, but I had a long and stressful flight. Now I’d like to take a nap.” She stands, kisses the top of Dean’s head like a granddaughter might kiss her grandfather, and leaves the two men in the kitchen to stare at one another.


	7. Chapter 7

     While Jess is napping, Cas and Dean form an easy banter that consists of Cas very blatantly oogling over every move Dean makes while Dean pretends not to notice. He does mundane things to keep his mind off Cas. He takes out the garbage. He shaves his scruffy jaw. He makes himself a sandwich for lunch. After he eats, Dean decides that should he spend one more moment trapped under the heat of Cas’ gaze, he’ll attack Cas. Whether it’ll be with his fists or his lips, he’s not willing to wait and see. Dean escapes to the garage to work on Baby and successfully manages to escape Cas’ gaze for hours, and the only reason he surfaces then is for the fact that his stomach has been protesting for nearly an hour. 

     When he tops the stairs, he spots Jess and Cas lounging in the living room. Jess is stretched down the entire length of the couch while Cas sits respectfully in the love seat. To an outsider, it would look as though Jess were the one who lived here, not Cas. They are watching _How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days,_ and Cas is just as enveloped as Jess. Dean is content to stand in the threshold and watch them enjoy themselves, but here lately, Cas has had a sixth sense for sensing Dean. He doesn’t stand there for more than a minute before Cas looks away from the screen and locks eyes with Dean. He pats the couch cushion beside him with a smile so soft that it looks as though it would break with a denial. 

     So Dean sits beside him, being careful to keep a respectable amount of space between them, despite the part of him remembering how those lips tasted. This is what Dean hates about men. Women consuming his thoughts, fine. He could remember their sweet scents or shrill screams for a few hours with a smug sense of satisfaction. Men, however, he would remember for days at a time, weeks even. He would fuck a guy, and three weeks later still feel the scratch of his stubble tracing down his chest. Dean hated how men always stuck with him. 

     Dean just prayed that Cas was feeling the ghosts of his kiss as well. He was also praying that Cas would not try to touch him—though Dean was starving for it—and that he would not make Dean want him too unattainably—though it was too late. Dean was determined to keep himself away from Cas. Where they were headed was nowhere easy, and their path will only build momentum, should Dean continue to give into the temptation of Cas. 

     Dean sits with them for a while longer, reminding himself that he cannot have Cas, that he does not want Cas. Eventually, he remembers the whole reason he came up and stands. Cas watches him, lighting the same fire in Dean that he has been working hard to extinguish. _This is Cas. Cas is a man. You cannot have feelings for a man. You cannot have feelings for Cas. You will hurt Cas. This is Cas. Cas is a man…_ He repeats the mantra over and over as he walks away, Cas’ eyes trailing him every step. Dean eats in the kitchen, savoring the silence, but of course, leave it to Jess to ruin it. 

     “Aren’t you going to offer me dinner?” She asks, flinging open the door to the refrigerator and rummaging around inside. 

     “I thought you were learning how to lose a guy,” Dean says around his mouthful. “Oh, wait, you practically wrote that article.” 

     “You did the research for it,” she counters, pulling out a jug of milk and sitting at the breakfast table across from Dean. “You never did know how to keep a guy.”

      “See, I don’t really keep _guys,_ Jess."

     "Oh, please, I've been around you for what? Eleven years? Don't act like you don't give the same interest to a hot guy walking by as you do a hot girl." Jess' grin is wicked around the milk glass. 

     "I catch them and have a little fun, sure, but I never _keep_ them.” Dean measures her response for a moment before tearing into his food again. He wouldn’t want to seem too concerned with her perception of his sexuality. “I’m too straight for that shit.” _Smooth, Dean. You really know how to seem uninterested._

     “Oh, save it, Dean. I don’t care whether you like the dog or the bun better. I just want you alive and happy.” She stares at him for a long while with that grin on her face. “Are you putting your blocks to him yet?" There is no question who she is talking about, but Dean scoffs in an attempt to avoid the question. 

     "Alright, Ennis," he says with the slick grin of his that looks like sex and sin.

     "Hey, I happen to love that movie," she says, putting a hand over her heart for emphasis. Dean smiles a softer smile.

     "You would," he says with a nod. She grins at him, and he can't help but think that there's something missing in that beautiful smile of hers, the same thing that's missing in his smile... 

     "He’s good for you, Dean," she says after a long moment, bringing his thoughts back to Cas, back to his sole ray of light in the darkness left by the absence of his family. “He brings out the good in you. He made you laugh, Dean, an honest to God laugh.”

     “So what? Cas is funny,” Dean says with a defensive shrug.

     “He’s funny and he’s smart, and he calls you on your bullshit.” She leans back, takes a sip of her drink and cocks her head to the side. “He’s like a male version of me!”

     “Oh, God,” Dean groans with a smile teasing his lips. “Help us all.” She laughs gently, looking down to her hands before reaching them out and wrapping them around Dean’s. 

     “Listen, I know it still bothers you that you like men,” Jess starts, but Dean shakes his head. 

     “Sex is sex, Jess,” he says, smiling to cover his embarrassment. She glares at him.

     “Shut up and listen to me, would you? Your father was an awful bastard to raise you to feel like you’re something less just because of what you like. I know it still bothers you that you like men, and I know there’s probably nothing I can say to make you change your mind about that, but Castiel is good for you, Dean. I haven’t heard you laugh in _so_ long, and I really miss the sound of it.” She stops to look at him for a moment, her small hands warm around his. “All I’m trying to say is, please don’t let your father ruin your happiness even from the grave.” Had it been anyone else saying this to him, he’d have yelled, fought, cussed, but this is Jess, and Jess has never been one to bullshit Dean. Jess has also never been one to give a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. “You deserve someone like Castiel in your life.”

     “No, I don’t,” Dean says so quietly that he really isn’t surprised when she doesn’t hear. She sits with him a moment longer before squeezing his hands and standing, leaving him alone with the deafening roar of his thoughts. Cas comes in after a bit, but Dean cannot look at him. 

     Jess' intentions were clear: make Dean realize he's got something good. The problem is, Dean already knew he has something good. He feels it in his gut every time Cas comes into view, every time those blue eyes skirt to his, every time the grumble of his voice sounds against a silent room. Dean know he's holding something precious in the palm of his hand, and fuck it all if that doesn't make him nervous. It makes his hands shake and that angry monster in his skull scream for him to put it down gently before his trembling hands slip and drop it. Holding something as precious, as _good_ as Cas makes Dean remember all the times he's held someone so tightly that they've crushed. His mom. His dad. Sam. Bobby, Ellen, Jo. They were all people he loved, people he lost because he loved them too much. He remembers all of this, and his instinct is to jerk his hands away as though Cas were an open flame. 

     Dean goes to his room. 

* * *

     Dean is dreaming of Cas, the bastard. He dreams of pushing open Cas' door and seeing him sitting cross-legged on the bed. He dreams that the man has wings, a glorious rendition of the ridiculous first notion he had of Cas. His wings are like that of the angel Dean thought he was, massive and overwhelming. Cas smiles when he sees Dean, then he beckons Dean to him. 

     "I know this is clichéd," Cas says, hauling Dean closer and closer by the forearms until Dean has no choice but to sit next to him. Cas' angelic feathers brush Dean's bare spine. Cas pulls one of Dean's wrists to his lips and kisses slowly down the entire length of his forearm, from the bend of his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Dean is transfixed. As Cas' lips brush over his skin, each scar he touches disappears. "I know this is clichéd," he says again, reaching for his other arm. "But I wanted you to have a clean slate."

     The door creaks open again, and when Dean turns his head, Sam is in the threshold, his shirt, blooded, his wrist, empty.

     "You did this to me, Dean," Sam says, and it is this moment that Dean realizes he is having a nightmare. Not because his dead brother is standing before him, but because his voice is something dark, demonic even. In Dean's nightmares, Sam's voice is never Sam's voice. "You don't deserve a clean slate."

     Dean jerks upright in his bed, sweat drenching him and his bed sheets. His pulse is hammering, stuttering out an obnoxious rhythm that Dean works frantically to calm. 

     "I'm sorry," Cas says from the doorway, making Dean jerk again. 

     "Shit, Cas!" He says, staring at the barefooted man before him. "I didn't even see you over there." It must have been Cas opening his door in reality that made Sam open Cas' in his dream. 

     "Oh, I thought I woke you," Cas says, his voice even more gruff than usual. He must have been asleep too. Cas crosses the room and slips a hand over Dean's shoulder before sitting behind him. 

     "No, it was just a nightmare." Dean tenses at Cas' lips on his neck.

     "You're drenched, baby. Go back to sleep," he murmurs, his breath hot on Dean's shoulder. "I'll keep the nightmares away." His hands rub down Dean's chest, his sides, touching all that he can while kissing up his neck slowly. _Cas is precious,_ Dean thinks. _Cas is good._ Cas pulls Dean tight against his chest and lays them down, Dean's back pressed against Cas' front. _He will shatter if I do not put him down._

     "Cas," he starts, rolling slowly away from him. Dean takes his time, preparing his words, preparing himself. "What happened last night...it can't happen again. _We_ can't happen." Even in the dark, Dean can see Cas' face fall. 

     "But I thought," he starts, his face melting into a window of sadness. _This is not him shattering. This is him slipping gently to safety, to anywhere I am not. This is me setting him down gently before my trembling hands drop him._

     "I know," Dean says, sitting up and scratching the back of his neck. "I should have made it clear before we..." 

     "Say it, Dean," Cas demands, sitting up and facing Dean. "You fucked me. Don't act ashamed of it now. Act ashamed of turning me into a one hit wonder. Say it, Dean." His voice is quiet. He doesn't even sound angry. He just sounds hurt.

     "I fucked you, Cas," Dean tells him through the darkness, but he knows that wasn't what happened. He's already corrected himself once. He made love to Cas, and loved every moment of it. "I'm not ashamed of it."

     "Then why are you doing this?" Cas' eyes are big and glossy in the dim moonlight shining through the window. _This is me sliding him to safety._

     "Because I don't care about you." Dean's voice is quiet, firm. He hopes Cas cannot hear the lies in it. "I wanted sex. You gave it to me, but now you're becoming clingy. I don't want you anymore, Castiel." Dean manages to hold Cas' eyes for a while before he tears them away with a sigh. "Please get out of my bedroom; I'd like to sleep now." Dean closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Cas has disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

     When Dean closes his eyes after that, he hears the not-Sam voice telling him again and again that he doesn't deserve a clean slate. The hours until dawn pass with that ghostly sound buzzing in his skull. He watches the sun chase away the moon with a heavy heart. Many people compare the sun and moon to star crossed lovers, destined to spend eternity apart, blah, blah, blah. Dean thinks they probably hate each other, but who is he to judge the feelings of inanimate objects?

     His door opens again as the sun tops the building across the street, signaling near nine o'clock, and Dean is overjoyed to hear the squeak of its hinges. It means Cas has refused to be pushed away. He turns to the door with a grin starting at his lips, but when he sees the mop of blonde hair atop the petite head, his spirits fall.

     "Oh, good, you're awake," she says with a yawn. "Castiel said to tell you he went back to his house to check on things."

     "He say when he's coming back?" Dean asks, sitting up in bed and rubbing pretend sleep from his eyes to keep her from seeing his anxiousness. 

     "No, sorry," she says, turning and closing the door behind her. 

     "Great," he grumbles. He stares out of the window for a while longer before finding the will to roll out of bed. When he stumbles into the kitchen, he finds that the coffee has not been made, nor has Cas' favorite mug been washed from yesterday. So he left last night... "Damn it," he groans, putting his head in his hands at the table. 

     "What happened?" Jess asks, starting the coffee for Dean in his useless state. 

     "I realized how wonderful he is," Dean says into his hands. "And I can't hurt him." 

     "So you dumped him?" Jess asks, her eyes locked on Dean in disbelief.

     "We were never together," Dean says, slapping his hands to the table. 

     "Oh," Jess says with a sarcastic laugh. "So you're playing _that_ game."

     "What are you even talking about, Jess?" Dean is exasperated. Dean is missing Cas. Dean is missing Sam. 

     "The game that you play when you think you're getting close to someone, when you realize you have feelings for someone. You're pushing him away because you think you don't deserve him, his care. You don't see how much he cares about you." She glares at Dean, and Dean glares right back. "Call him, you stubborn mule."

     "He left, Jess. He doesn't want to talk to me, and I don't care. I don't care about him!" Dean's voice is loud, overbearing. 

     "You can't lie to me, Dean. You're crazy about him."

     "Fuck you," Dean spits, but Jess isn't fazed. 

     "Call him." They stare each other down, but Dean had been planning on calling him anyway. He hated the idea that Cas hated him.

     "Don't be an eavesdropper," Dean snarls, pulling his phone from his pocket. 

     "Oh, please, I'll need all the information later for damage control." Dean flips her the bird, but she walks away anyways. 

     Cas' phone rings twice before he answers, his tone painfully cheerful. 

     "Hello," Cas asks, a smile staining his voice.

     "Uh, hey, Cas," Dean says, rubbing the headache from his temple. "You weren't here when I got up. I just thought I'd check in."

     "Strange for someone who doesn't care." His voice is jovial, but Dean is not fooled. The joy in his voice is not warm. It is forced, and it is stony. "But I'm fine."

     "I just, I didn't think you'd leave... I mean, this is the first time I've been alone, except for when you were at work." Cas doesn't respond, so Dean keeps talking, resorting to babble. "Jess woke me up this morning to tell me you were gone. I was just surprised you trusted me enough to leave me alone."

     "You aren't alone, Dean," Cas says, his voice still fake and cheery.

     "Well, yeah, but I mean she’s not you. You know all of my tricks and toys." Dean tries to laugh, tries to act like the fact that Cas could tell him how many scars are on his wrist to make sure there aren't any new additions doesn't scare the shit out of him. His laugh sounds more like a choke.

     "I'll be back before Jessica leaves," Cas says, and Dean can practically hear him shrug. _I guess Cas really is unbreakable._

     "What are you going to do?" Dean asks, to which Cas scoffs.

     "My life does not revolve around you, Dean."

     "I know that. I just meant, I don't know, you live here so..." Dean's voice is small compared to Cas' big show. 

     "I don't live there, Dean. I still pay each and every bill on my house. I still sleep in my own bed, wear my own clothes, buy my own food." A shuffle brushes through the phone, and Dean takes the moment to orient himself.

     "I know, I just thought," he starts, but Cas cuts him off, his voice still haughty.

     "I know what you thought, Dean. You thought that us having sex meant more to me than it did to you, but you're sadly mistaken. You were a good fuck, sure, but our little chat last night made me realize that I hadn't set my own boundaries." Dean's stomach clenches. "I stay at your place during the week because it is a job, a responsibility of mine. I promised the hospital, and I promised you, but it's a job, Dean, and right now, I'm off duty. I'll be back before Jessica leaves." Dean is stunned still. He cannot think. He cannot speak. Even as the dial tone sounds, Dean hears only Cas' carefree voice saying "You were a good fuck, sure, but it was only a job." When Jess comes back into the kitchen, she finds Dean with the receiver balanced between his ear and shoulder. 

     "How'd it go, Champ?" She asks, but had she glanced at him before she asked, she would have known. 

     "He said that living here, being with me, was just a job." Dean's voice is distant, like a ghost's. 

     "Dean," she says with a sympathetic sigh. She steps towards Dean and wraps her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry." Her chin rests on his shoulder and presses into his muscle as she speaks. "He'll come around." Dean shrugs her off.

     "I don't care," he says, leaving his phone on the table as he stands. "I'm going out."

     "Hey, not by yourself you aren't!" Jess' voice scrambles down the stairs at the same time her feet do, but she has no chance of stopping him. "You're on suicide watch!"

     "I'm going to a gay bar. Wanna join?" Dean's voice is sharp and sarcastic as he shrugs on his jacket. 

     "Will there be strippers?" She asks, her tone just as viperous as she leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her tiny body.

     "Jess,” he says with a sigh, dropping his smart ass tone. “I really just need to be alone. I swear I'll come back." He kisses her cheek before he moves her out of his way and shuts the door behind him. 

     Once the bars open their doors, Dean really does go to a gay bar, a small hole in the wall called The Malebox, a name that perfectly sets off the level of douchery in the atmosphere. This is the type of place seventeen-year-old Dean would have gone looking for dinner money. The bar is average for noon, the customers mostly men, a lot too young, a lot too old, a lot who set their sights on Dean the instant he walks in the door. Needless to say, he has the pick of the litter. Even so, he sits at the bar and keeps his eyes on the bartender in hopes of flagging him down. After a moment or so, the man looks to Dean and nods. 

     "Whadaya need?" The man asks, his accent thickly southern as he slurs together his words just enough to save time but still be understood.

     "Can I get a whiskey?" Dean asks, watching the bartender through the smoke-dimmed light.

     "Preference?" The bartender asks, turning around to get Dean a glass.

     "No, just make it neat," Dean says, putting his head in his hands. Even with the noise of the bar, Dean can still hear Cas telling him it was just a job. "Better make it a double," Dean decides as Cas' ghost voice reaches the end of his sentence.

     "My kinda man," the bartender says with a snort as he fills Dean's glass. 

     "That so," Dean mumbles before pulling the glass to him and downing its contents. He expects the bartender to be gone when he looks back up, but when he sets the drink down, the man is watching with lidded eyes.

     "I'm Benny," he says around his accent. Dean decides it's Cajun. 

     "Dean," Dean replies with the smile he wears when he's looking to get laid. Benny the bartender watches Dean a moment longer before refilling his glass. "What time does your shift end?" The words fall out of Dean before he can stop them; they are slow against the pull of alcohol. Usually, he'd be smoother, suave-er, but usually, he's not chasing away the ghost of Cas.

     "Sorry, buddy. I got a girl back home," Benny says with a regretful shrug paired with a small smile. 

     "It's okay," Dean says, trying to pretend the flush in his cheeks is from the alcohol not the rejection. "I'm just looking for a rebound." Benny snorts.

     "A rebound or a way to make your partner jealous?" Benny's voice is light, like he has this conversation a hundred times a night. Hell, he may. 

     "Both," Dean says with a snort into his glass. 

     "You swing both ways," Benny says, raising it like a question even though he looks like he knows the answer. 

     "Yeah," Dean says, finishing his drink and tapping the rim to show Benny he needs more alcohol, always more alcohol. 

     "I know a little lady who might be willin' to help you out. She just found out her girl likes guys—the hard way, no pun intended—and told me to keep an eye out for anyone who'd help her get revenge on her ex while not bein' 'too unbearably creepy.'" The man used finger quotes, honest to God. Dean might have laughed a few moments ago, but now the gears in his brain are turning on overdrive.

     "She here?" Dean asks, and Benny grins.

     "Yeah, but she's like family to me so don't do nothin' stupid like try ‘n gang bang her. I'd have to kill you then." He smiles, but his eyes are deadly serious.

     "You'd trust family to a complete stranger?" Dean asks Benny incredulously. 

     "Like I said," Benny starts, drying a glass with a towel before putting it away and drying another one. "My kinda man." Benny winks at Dean before pointing to a back corner of the bar, the only place women are. "Her name's Charlie, and she's eccentric." 

     "Thanks, man," Dean says, slapping a wad of cash onto the bar. 

     "No, brother," Benny says, picking up the bills and putting them back in Dean's hands. "Your drinks are on the house. You're doin' us all a favor gettin' Charlie and her drunken rants out of our hair." Benny grins wickedly before turning away and beginning to whistle. "She's the little red head in the far corner. I wouldn't suggest hitting on her." Benny's voice is serious, but completely saturated with amusement, like he feels obligated to warn Dean but can't wait to see it happen.

     "Got it," Dean says, downing the last of his whiskey before turning away from the bartender with the thick accent and far-fetched ideas that might help everyone out.

     Dean makes his way through the sea of men to break into the small crowd of women. There, in the middle, surrounded by gorgeous women of all shapes, colors, and sizes, sits a small woman with a wasted grin and a halo of fiery red hair.

     "Charlie," Dean asks, stepping into the circle of women. Every pair of eyes turn, but the red head's green ones drain of joy.

     "Well, you just ruined my fantasy of being positively surrounded by beautiful women," she says, cocking her head to the side.

     "You're still surrounded by beautiful women, just...one of them happens to be a guy." He gives her his most charming smile, but her happy grin is gone.

     "Are you here to hit on me? Because unless you have a vagina, you are _so_ in the wrong bar to be hitting on chicks." Dean snorts, his charming grin lost to his amused grin.

     "I'm not here to hit on you. The bartender, Benny, said you might be interested in helping me help you." Her eyebrows raise, and he knows he's got her.

     "Will you ladies excuse us?" Charlie asks the women who are flanking her, all the while never taking her eyes off Dean's. After the crowd of women leaves, each with a small pout or whine, Dean notices, for the first time, what she is wearing.

     " _The Lego Movie_?" Dean asks, motioning to her t-shirt as he sits across from her in the large booth.

     "Hey, don't knock the sex appeal of the girl-nerd." Charlie smiles, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth.

     "Sorry," Dean says with a smile. "I'm Dean, by the way."

     "Charlie."

     "Benny said you were looking for someone who would help you get revenge on your ex-girlfriend." Dean usually starts with an icebreaker, but usually, Dean isn't struggling with the idea that Cas might be forever lost to him. Charlie's eyes darken.

     "This is true," she says after a moment. "And what would be in it for you?"

     "I want my best friend back," Dean says, because that's all he really wants. He wants his relationship with Cas to go back to before this ever started. 

     "And fake sleeping with a girl--it will be fake, by the way, I'm only interested in women--will bring them back?" Charlie asks, tilting her head slightly. Dean thought, when he first saw her, that Charlie was just a drunk girl at a bar, but now, he see's she's not even tipsy. Every move she makes is calculated, every breath she takes is weighed for timing and depth. The girl is analyzing everything. She is also trying to make a point at Dean, but he isn’t really interested in being taught anything. She doesn’t even know him. 

     “Look, I know it’s not the best plan, but I’ve got something to prove to him. I won’t ask questions if you don’t.” Dean, knowing that she is calculating his every intake of breath, makes sure to keep his face stony and unyielding. 

     “Alright, well, here’s what I would need from you. I would need you to have fake sex with me, but I’d need to it be convincing. Could you do that?” Charlie asks, her voice doubtful. Dean scoffs.

     “Excuse me, sweetheart,” Dean says, calling to one of the women he saw eyeing him when he walked in the bar. “Could you come here for a second?” The girl Dean calls on is blonde, chesty, exactly the type of girl he would have been all over two months ago, before Cas that is…Not that Dean has feelings for the man…That would be gay… Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that his heterosexuality is completely shattered, so instead, he watches the blonde walk towards him with hungry interest. 

     “What’s up, gorgeous?” she asks, smiling down to him with perfectly glossed lips. 

     “Could you settle an argument for us?” Dean’s smile is charming, disarming, and Charlie scoffs at the sound. Dean stands before the girl, bowed up like a peacock. “My friend here thinks that I’m a terrible kisser, but I think otherwise.” The girl smiles before Dean kisses her. He pretends she’s Cas, but the taste is too sweet, the skin too smooth. “What do you think?” Dean asks when he pulls away from her. 

     “Definitely not terrible,” she says with a grin and walks away. Dean turns back to Charlie. 

     “Convincing?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

     “You’ll do,” she says, and he sits back down across from her. “I’ll see you at my place around six-thirty tonight,” she says, taking a napkin from the booth’s dispenser and writing her address down. 

     “Your ex still lives with you?” Dean asks, and she shrugs. “Sounds familiar,” he murmurs and pockets the address.

     “She’ll be home from work at seven, so we’ll need to be fake in between the sheets by then.” Charlie takes a sip of her drink and pushes her fiery red hair out of her face. 

     “I don’t know when my… _friend_ will be back…” Dean tries not to let the resignation show in his voice.

     “What’s your story anyways?” She asks, her voice softening to compassion. 

     “I don’t really want to talk about that,” Dean says after a moment of hesitation. 

     “Oh, come on. I need to know what I’m walking into.” Her smile is soft, obviously not understanding what Dean means when he says he doesn’t want to talk about it. Dean wants to tell her though. He wants to tell everyone, and he wants everyone to know that Cas is wonderful, that Cas is exactly what Dean needs from life.

     “He’s wonderful,” Dean says, and the words burn when they leave his lips. He never thought he’d admit to it. His heterosexuality is hanging precariously in the balance, but he doesn’t care. He needs someone to know. Charlie smiles gently at him, a softness touching her eyes. It hardens Dean. “Anyway, he’s great, and I don’t deserve him so I broke it off. He got pissed off and left.”

     “So what exactly are you hoping to accomplish by doing this?”

     “I don’t know,” he says, and grins at her, as though nothing were wrong. “But I need to go, so I’ll see you later tonight.” Dean stands and walks away from her, winking at the blonde he kissed on his way out. 

     “Call me,” she says, handing him a napkin with her number on it.

     “Sure thing,” he says, putting the paper in his pocket, knowing he’ll never call her. What girl tries to pick up men in a gay bar anyways? He gives Benny a nod before he leaves, silently thanking him for the help. 

     He wanders around downtown to walk off his buzz and waits until he must go to Charlie’s. He knows Jess is probably furious, but he can’t go home yet, otherwise she’ll refuse to let him leave again. He avoids the alleys because one of them is stained with Sam’s blood, so instead, he walks the edge of the road, veering to the sidewalk when cars pass. He wanders around for hours, thinking of Sam and of Cas and of all the things he’s ruined in his life. He walks until he finds Charlie’s address, a quaint little apartment above a Laundromat. 

     Dean takes the steps to her loft apartment two at a time before knocking against her door. She opens it nearly immediately, her face contoured and highlighted by make-up. 

     “Thank God,” she says, pulling him through the door. “What are you wearing?” Dean looks down to the same outfit he wore to the bar earlier, the same outfit he was wearing when Cas left, a pair of ripped jeans and his favorite Skynyrd shirt. “Never mind,” Charlie says, waving her hand by her head as if waving away a fly. “Dorothy will be here in ten minutes, and we’ve got to make it seem like I’d ever be even remotely attracted to you.”

     “I’ll try not to take it offensively,” Dean says with a small smile.

     “Sorry, it’s just that I’m seriously only interested in girls. It would take a really bitchin’ guy to change me.” Charlie leads Dean to what he presumes is her bedroom and pushes him to sit on the bed. “First,” she says, reaching out and pushing his perfectly mussed hair into a chaotic mess on his skull. 

     “Hey,” he complains, ducking away from her touch. 

     “Oh stop,” she says with a roll of her eyes. While she’s fixing his hair, he looks around her room. It is decorated with posters of Hermione, Dungeons and Dragons, and a very scantily dressed anime character. He smiles. “Okay,” she says, dropping her hands and stepping back to admire her work. “So just remember that we’re acting. We aren’t really having sex, but we need to make it look real and sound real. Underwear stays on.” She gives him a look, and he rolls his eyes. 

     “Trust me, I don’t want to have sex with you.” She rolls her eyes at him, and he offers her a small smile. The front door opens, and the color drains out of Charlie’s already pale face.

     “She’s early,” she mutters, and the next thing Dean knows, both of their shirts are on the floor, and Charlie is in his lap, pushing him back and under the covers. 

     “Charlie,” A voice calls from beyond her closed door. “I’m home.” In response, Charlie lets out a moan that sounds more than genuine. Her hand slaps down to Dean’s crotch, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. Dean gasps in response before wriggling out of his jeans and grunting, catching her drift. “Charlie,” Dorothy calls again, her voice questioning. Dean can hear her voice growing closer, so he acts on instinct and rolls on top of Charlie.

     “Hey,” she says quietly, squirming under him. 

     “Shut up, she’s coming,” Dean says, putting his lips against hers, making it seem real but keeping his hands and his tongue to himself. Charlie pulls away, rolling them so that she is perched on Dean. 

     “I’m a top, and did you even bother brushing your teeth?” she asks, giving him evil eyes. 

     “Nope,” he says, grinning up to her. The voice draws closer, and he can feel Charlie’s heart speed. He lets out a loud groan and moves himself beneath her, rutting against the fabric between them enough so that the headboard smacks against the wall with his movements. She catches the hint and practically bounces on Dean, but from her lips falls a sinful moan. She leans back down and kisses Dean, keeping her rhythm over Dean as the footsteps get closer. 

     “Ew, stubble,” she whines, but Dean ignores her, letting his hands find her thighs, right where he’d put his hands on dozens of other girls during real sex, right where he’d never put his hands on Cas. Damn it, even with a girl perched over his hips, demanding to take control exactly the way he likes, he’s thinking about Cas.

     “Charlie?” the voice asks, opening the door. Charlie hesitates over Dean for the perfect amount of time before swinging her hair out of her face and looking up to Dorothy with wide eyes. 

     “Dorothy,” she says, and Dean works to look as guilty as he knows his performance calls for. Dorothy gapes at the two of them for a moment longer before closing the door with a small gasp. When the door clicks shut, Charlie snorts, rolling off Dean.

     “Was it believable?” he asks, looking over at her. 

     “Eh,” she says, crawling out of bed and mussing her hair in the mirror. She takes Dean’s t-shirt and pulls it over her head. “I’ll give it back, I just need it for another kick in her ass. Come on,” She says, pulling Dean out of bed by his hand and putting his hand around her waist. “Just a little longer.” Dean pulls his jeans on but doesn’t button them or fasten the belt. 

     “Dorothy,” Charlie calls, opening her door but keeping Dean’s hand on her barely covered hipbone. 

     Dorothy leans against the counter, her back to the entering couple, her shoulders hunched over the sink. 

     “Dorothy,” Charlie asks, her voice hesitant and concerned. “Are you okay?”

     “No,” she says, slamming her hands to the countertop. “You’re fucking someone else!”

     “Yeah,” Charlie says, the gentleness gone from her voice. “It sucks doesn’t it?” Charlie smiles and leans closer to Dorothy. “By the way, I want you out by the end of the month.”


	9. Chapter 9

     Dean goes home after that, knowing he can shirk his life no longer. He hopes Cas will be there, but Dean knows better than to hope…he always has. 

     Jess is furious when he gets home. Her face is tear stained, and when he opens the door, she attacks him much like she did when he first opened the door to her. She slaps his chest and his arms and screams at him until she calms down. 

     “How dare you,” she screams, but Dean knows she was just scared. Dean knows she was just concerned for him, so instead of pushing her away or acting oblivious to it all, he wraps her in his arms and tries to calm her. 

     “I know, Jess. I know. I just needed to be away. Too many people are supposed to be here and aren’t, and I just needed to get away.” 

     “You should have called,” she murmurs into his chest, and he pulls her off him gently. 

     “I know,” he says, kissing her forehead. He’ll miss her when she leaves. He always does. “I’m gonna go upstairs, okay? Call Cas maybe.” Dean doesn’t call Cas, and it doesn’t seem to him like Cas minds too terribly much. 

     Cas stays gone for three days, and during that time, Dean falls back into his habit of self destruction. Jess tries, bless her, she tries, but the only one who can help is Cas. When Jess finds Dean drunk and screaming for Cas, she calls him. Even in his drunken state, Dean can hear her hushed words as she begs him to come home. He never shows. Dean begins to wonder if he ever will. 

     Charlie calls twice, once to tell him with a giggle that she and Dorothy are back together and again to tell him with a determined tone of voice that she’s ready for whatever he’s got to throw at him. Both times, he lets her go to voicemail. 

     On the third day he’s gone, Jess comes to wake him up, a gentle smile on her face. 

     “I talked to Cas,” she says, knowing that, otherwise, she’ll fail to hold his attention. “My flight leaves tonight, so Cas said he’d be here by four.” She waits for a response, but Dean keeps his head turned away from her. “Have breakfast with me?” she asks, and Dean sighs. 

     “I’m not hungry, Jess,” he says, pulling his blanket closer to him.

     “Okay, well come spend time with me. You’ve been moping in your room for days, and I have hardly seen you at all, let alone sober.” Dean sighs. She’s right. She left California on a dime to check on him, and he’s been blowing her off since she got here. 

     “Give me a minute,” Dean says, and she sighs, swinging the door shut as she leaves. Dean takes his requested minute to call Charlie. 

     “He’s coming back today,” he says as soon as Charlie answers the phone, but not bothering with pleasantry of a greeting. It takes her a moment to respond. 

     “When do you need me there?” She asks, and Dean smiles. They coordinate their attack so that Cas will arrive to their absence. They will fall through the door, clinging to each other and laughing. Cas will watch, analyzing every move they make, and Dean will act completely infatuated with this fiery haired girl who is not the least bit interested in men. Charlie will act like Dean is funny, and sophisticated, and a lovely choice for Cas to want to be with. Dean supposed _that_ is his endgame, to convince Cas that Dean is worth being stuck on even though Dean will never allow himself the happiness of being with Cas. 

     Even so, Dean hangs out with Jess, cherishing her company and knowing he’ll miss her. He watches chick flicks with her until he must leave to pick up Charlie. He kisses her forehead before moving her legs of his lap and standing.

     “Where are you going?” She asks when he heads for the stairwell.

     “I’ve got a hot date. I’ll be back before you leave.”

     “If you’re trying to avoid Cas, this isn’t the way to go.” Her voice is chiding, but Dean merely shrugs into his jacket and throws a hand up as a wave. Charlie, when Dean arrives, is watching a movie with Dorothy curled against her side. 

     “Give me ten minutes,” she says, and Dorothy smiles at Dean. 

     “Sure,” he says, confused by Dorothy’s smile. The movie ends ten minutes later, and Charlie stands. 

     “I’ll be home later,” she tells Dorothy, and Dorothy nods.

     “Keep your hands to yourself, Skippy,” Dorothy says with a teasing tone of voice.

     “It’s Dean,” he says, confusion turning his voice sour. She smiles anyways. 

     “I told her,” Charlie says as she crawls into the cab Dean had waiting. He makes a mental note to finish the Impala soon. “She thought sacrificing my intense distaste for penis to make her jealous was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.” Charlie shrugs. “I think she’s dumb for that, and I’m not completely over her cheating on me, but whatever. I’m willing to try.” Dean snorts as he settles in beside Charlie. “So,” she asks, leaning back and looking at him. “What do you need from me?” Dean sighs.

     “I need you to be my fake girlfriend for the night. No sex, just lots of hand holding, snuggling, giggling, you know, just pretend I’m Dorothy.” 

     “I thought you said no sex,” she says, and Dean laughs, an honest to God laugh, one that doesn’t even choke him on the way out. 

     “I could make all sorts of wildly inappropriate comments, but for the sake of the task at hand, I just need you to make it seem like we’re dating.” Charlie rolls her eyes.

     “You two have the most screwed up relationship I’ve ever seen,” she says, and Dean grunts. 

     “Says the girl who took a stranger home and had fake sex to get revenge on an ex you took back anyways.” Charlie shrugs.

     “Touché. From now on, this is a judgment free zone.” Dean rolls his eyes.

     When the cab pulls up to the library, Dean feels his heart stutter at the sight of Cas’ pimp mobile in the parking lot. Charlie crawls out of the cab and stares up to the building. 

     “You live in a library?” she asks, and Dean ignores her. He hates explaining this to people, so generally, he doesn’t. 

     “Yep,” he says and steps up to the door. “Ready?” he asks her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She laughs aloud, a laugh that lingers until Dean takes his cue and pushes open the door. Her laugh resonates through the empty aisles. From the front door, Dean can see Jess in the kitchen. Jess sees him too and freezes before racing towards him. Dean tightens his grip on Charlie, smiling broader to hide the flush in his cheeks.

     “Dean,” Jess says, skittering to a stop before him, her expression frazzled as she takes in Charlie. “Cas is here w-” Dean cuts her off. 

     “I know. I saw his car,” Dean says, glancing to Charlie, her eyes lingering on Jess’ clothes clad curves.

     “No, you don’t understand. He’s,” Jess’ voice is excited, almost frantic, but Dean cuts her off again. 

     “I really don’t want to hear about Cas, Jess,” he says, his fingers involuntarily tightening on Charlie’s waist. Jess stares at him. “This is my hot date, Charlie.” Jess glances at Charlie, smiles a small smile meant as a hello, and turns her attention back to Dean. 

     “Really, Dean, this is important. Cas has,” she spits, but before she can finish, Cas immerges from his room, a tall and sleekly attractive man following in his wake. “Company,” Jess finishes, but Dean hardly hears her over the rush of blood in his ears. Dean feels his adrenaline, his confidence melt as the man leans forward to whisper in Cas’ ear. Dean’s arms go limp by his side as Cas giggles at the man’s words. Dean can feel Jess’ eyes on him, Charlie’s eyes on him, but Cas’ eyes, those blue beauties are on the man brushing a hand over the hipbones that are probably still yellowed by Dean’s demanding kiss. Cas looks up as he rounds the last spiral of the staircase, his eyes landing immediately on Dean. Dean feels Charlie’s fingers slip between his, a silent reminder that _Dean_ is running this fuck show, not Cas. 

     “Hey, Cas,” Dean says, forcing his voice to sound nonchalant. “This is my date, Charlie.” Cas smiles at her, just as Dean knew he would. _Damn he looks good,_ Dean thinks, his eyes trailing over Cas’ lean muscles, his perfectly tailored slacks. 

     “And mine, Balthazar,” Cas says, waiving to the tall, thin man next to him. Dean stretches his hand out to Balthazar, but the man merely grimaces. Charlie squeezes his hand, a friendly, supportive gesture disguised as one of intimacy. If she hadn’t, Dean probably would have decked the man right then and there on principle alone. Dean turns and buries his face in Charlie’s hair.

     “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says, his voice hidden by her giggles. 

     “Stop that,” she whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear. It is part of the show. It is her response to Dean. _I can do this._ Charlie is better at the fake dating stuff than Dean is. Dean’s good at real dating, and he’s damn good at real sex, but faking it? Not so much.

     Cas averts his eyes, and Jess clears her throat. This moment is the incarnation of awkward. Cas’ _whatever_ steps infinitesimally closer to Cas, not enough for anyone but Dean to notice, but enough to send a wave of jealousy ripping through Dean. Cas is _Dean’s._

     “Anyone hungry?” Jess asks, trying to ease the tension.

     “No,” Dean says at the same time that Balthazar speaks, a startling English accent rolling from between his lips. 

     “Starving,” he says, but Dean is watching Cas. Cas is watching Balthazar—what the hell kind of a name is _Balthazar_ anyways?—his eyes all wide and wonder filled. 

     “I’ll make an early dinner,” Jess says, anything to escape the awkwardness. Dean watches Cas and his date for a moment longer before deciding that he’s going to be sick and pulling Charlie upstairs. As soon as they are out of earshot, Charlie pulls her hand form Dean’s and hisses at him.

     “What, the actual hell?” she says, her eyes wide.

     “I didn’t know he’d bring home another guy. I didn’t even know he knew other guys _existed._ ” Dean brings a hand to his face, but Charlie holds no sympathy. 

     “You honestly thought you were the only one for him?” Dean cannot hold her eyes; he knows his weakness is written in them plain as day. 

     “I hoped,” he murmurs eventually, but Charlie shakes her head. 

     “Don’t even give me that. _You_ broke up with _him,_ remember,” she says, the undertone of her voice telling Dean she’ll take no bullshit. 

     “We were never together,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes, always frantic to preserve his heterosexuality. 

     “Whatever,” Charlie says. “You don’t get to tell him you don’t want to be with him and then expect him not to be with someone else. Do you really want him to be alone?” Dean frowns. That isn’t what he wants. He wants to not break everything he touches. He wants to not be trapped by his fear. “Don’t give me that look,” she continues, misinterpreting his internal crisis as an external annoyance. “I’m just calling it like I see it. If you care about him, stop being a jackass.”

     Cas and Balthazar appear at the top of the stairs. Charlie immediately relaxes so that her body goes from argument! to flirty conversation! Dean tries to swallow his anger and mimic her, but the sight of Balthazar serving as Cas’ second shadow makes his anger, his distress a very tangible thing. 

     “Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean forces himself to draw in a deep breath before letting his eyes drift to Cas. “Balth,” Dean flinches. “And I are going to go watch a movie. You and Charlie are welcome to join.” Cas smiles, and Dean suddenly envies the bastard. _How can he just smile his way through this?_ Dean wonders as he swallows the bile rising in his throat.

     “That would be great,” Charlie says, and takes Dean’s hand, following Cas and pulling Dean along. “Act like you love me, not _him,_ ” Charlie whispers in his ear. 

     “I don’t, either of you,” Dean says, ever the one to push away the L-word. Charlie snorts. 

     “You’re practically green,” she said, but Dean ignores her. Cas is talking intently with Balthazar, a few steps too far for Dean to eavesdrop. Charlie’s hand is getting clammy in his, but it’s not Charlie’s hand that Dean is focusing on. Dean knows from experience that sleeping with Cas is like flipping a switch in him. Before sex, Cas is withdrawn, someone who rejects physical contact, but get him into bed, and his hands turn into magnets, skimming over every stretch of skin and stitch of clothing available to him, even afterwards. Right now, those hands are picking gently at the sleeve of Balthazar’s sweater. 

     “They’ve slept together,” Dean spits to Charlie whose eyes dart ahead to Cas and Balthazar.

     “What? How do you know?” 

     “He’s touching him.” Dean is practically vibrating with anger. 

     “So? I’m touching you,” Charlie offers, her voice fumbling to keep Dean calm. 

     “No, Cas doesn’t touch like that unless you’ve slept with him. Believe me, I’d know.”

     “Gross,” Charlie says, and Cas lets out one of his full-bellied laughs, one that has Balthazar smiling proudly. “Just talk to him,” Charlie says, following Dean’s line of sight. 

     “’Just talk to him’? That’s your advice? Do you see him up there? That’s his _boyfriend_ he’s flirting with. What am I supposed to say anyways? ‘Hey, Cas, I know I slept with you, led you on to believe that I was interested in a future, ripped your heart out, and brought home a girl I’m fake fucking with the full intention to hurt you further, but I want you to end your very _real_ relationship so that I can freak out about homosexual commitments and my destructive nature and _still_ not be with you.’” Charlie rolls her eyes as they enter the living room. 

     “You’re impossible, you know that?” she says, wearing the perfect smile as they walk into the living room, not that anyone is looking. Cas is crouched down in front of the TV, his shirt rising up as he fiddles with the DVD player. Balthazar’s eyes are greedily taking in the strip of skin. Not that Dean really blames him; Cas has a perfect little ass. Even so, Cas isn’t some object that Balthazar can just…objectify. 

     “Is _Star Trek VI_ alright?” Cas asks, and Dean is sure it’s a jab at him. Cas is well aware that the sixth is Dean’s least favorite. 

     “Sure,” he says anyways, just to show Cas that his bothering doesn’t bother Dean. Dean pulls Charlie to the love seat, sitting down and pulling her flush against his side. 

     “You smell like a man,” she complains quietly, and Dean snorts.

     “Yeah, well you smell like a woman,” he counters, but their small interaction goes unnoticed. Cas finally gets the movie going, and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s Cas under his arm…then Charlie shifts and her too long hair brushes his face or her flowery scent flows into his nose and his façade crumbles. When that happens, Dean finds himself glancing at Cas. It’s not even that they’re being showy, in fact, they are sitting much like Dean and Charlie, Balthazar’s shoulder’s curled under Cas arm, his back pressed closely to Cas’ side. Dean turns away. This cuddling, this gentleness is more painful than if Dean had witnessed them having sex. Sex can be passionless; sex can be faked. This, this cuddling and touching…well Dean just doesn’t think Cas is capable of fooling him this well. On an impulse, a kicking, screaming, last-ditch effort to get Cas to notice him, Dean tips Charlie’s chin up and kisses her, swallowing down her startled gasp and trying hard to steal Cas’ attention. He doubts it works, but when he pulls away, he knows he looks desperately hopeful. Charlie merely looks sad; she knows Dean has failed too… Dean sees his failure in her eyes. He glances toward Cas, but Balthazar is sitting alone. Charlie must have been watching, for she turns her head and frowns at Cas’ empty seat. 

     “Excuse me,” he mutters, shifting away from Charlie before standing. 

     “Dean,” she asks, a warning running under her gentle tone. 

     “I’ll be right back,” he says, already in the hall. He sees Cas’ shadow falling from the open door of his room. “Cas,” Dean says quietly, pushing open the door completely. Cas is hunched against the wall, his forehead pressed against the cool paint. When Dean comes in, he rolls his face away from Dean. 

     “Hi, Dean,” Cas says his voice horse and clearly struggling to sound level. “I’ll be right back. I’m just… freshening up.” Cas straightens against the wall. “Go on. Your date is waiting.”

     “She’s fine,” Dean says, stepping closer to Cas. He puts a hand to his face as Dean steps closer still.

     “Dean, please,” Cas says as he steps back. 

     “What?” Dean asks. His heart is beating wildly.

     “You’re doing that thing again,” Cas says, turning around.

     “What thing?” Dean asks. _Dear God, his eyes are so fucking blue._

     “That thing where you shove me away then snatch me back when I try to put my attention on something else.” Cas’ voice is shaky, loud. 

     “I just wanted to check on you,” Dean says quietly. 

     “I’m fine. Go be with Charlie.” Cas looks away, and suddenly, Dean realizes he has succeeded. He hurt Cas.

     “Aw hell,” he says before he can stop himself. He rubs a hand through his hair. “Are you happy, Cas?”

     “Do I look happy, Dean?” he says, and all at once, Dean sees the tears welled up in Cas eyes. 

     “Does he make you happy?” Dean asks because he failed, and if he’s dumb enough to think he succeeded just because he got what he wanted, then fuck him. 

     “Who? Balthazar?” Cas looks away. “That’s complicated.”

     “It’s not a complicated question, Cas,” Dean says, sitting down on the edge of Cas’ bed.

     “It is because Balth is great.” Even through this all, Dean still wants Cas to chose him. Dean feels his heart fall. “He’s sweet and smart, and he’s not ashamed of me.” Dean flinches.

     “So, he makes you happy,” Dean summarizes, looking up to Cas’ hands. Cas sits next to Dean. It’s the closest he’s been to Dean in days. 

     “Balth is great,” Cas says again. “But he’s not you.” Dean looks up startled. Cas’ mouth is a displeased frown. 

     “Me,” Dean parrots, and Cas shrugs.

     “What can I say? I fell for you.” Dean feels the blood rush to his face. _He fell for…me?_

     “I thought I was just a job.” That isn’t what he wants he wants to say. He wants to tell Cas that these days without him have been hell. He wants to tell Cas that Dean thinks he’s an idiot for falling for him, but God is he grateful.

     “Please,” Cas snorts. “I was just saying that. You said you didn’t want me, and that hurt like hell. I wanted you to hurt as much as I did.” _I did._ Cas laughs. “It was dumb to think I could hurt you by saying I didn’t care about you. It doesn’t really matter if you don’t care about me.” _I do._ Cas sighs. “I respect your decision now, and I see why you said it. You weren’t trying to hurt me; you were just trying to protect me.” _I was._ “You didn’t feel the same way, and you didn’t want to string me along.” _Wait, no._ “Anyway, I’m learning to accept it. I’ll be fine.” Cas smiles gently and stands. “I should go. Balthazar is probably worried.” Dean gapes as he leaves, too stunned to say anything, to stop Cas from leaving. _What, the actual_ hell _just happened?_ Dean blinks. _You let him walk away._ That’s _what the actual hell just happened._ Dean lets his head fall to his hands before he rises to face the world. 

     Charlie leaves after dinner; Dean walks her to her cab and thanks her for trying. Jess leaves after clean-up; Dean drives her to the airport—in Cas’ car, damn it—and reluctantly lets her board her plane. Balthazar doesn’t leave, and after hours of watching from the corner of his eyes as the dick holds Cas, he decides that he well and truly cannot take it any longer and goes to his room. 

     He doesn’t sleep immediately. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he watches numbly as the ceiling fan spins around above him for hours, straining to hear—or not hear—the movie playing in the living room. He pretends he doesn’t hear the TV turn off before two sets of footsteps proceed to Cas’ room. After that, he puts his headphones on, almost thinking that hearing the silence of the two of them simply sleeping would be worse than hearing Cas’ moans as someone else pushed into him. Dean’s stomach rolls with anxiety at the mere thought.


	10. Chapter 10

     Somehow, Dean sleeps, and when he wakes, he doesn’t think about the fact that Cas has a boyfriend, and he doesn’t think about his rapidly fading heterosexuality. He doesn’t think about Sammy or his parents, and he doesn’t think about dying. The only thing he’s thinking about is coffee, and God bless Cas’ beautiful soul, there’s a pot brewing. 

     “Thank God,” Dean groans, snatching the pot from under the maker and pouring himself a steaming cup. “Caffeine, caffeine, caffeine,” he chants before sitting down and drinking—relishing, really—his coffee.

     “I much prefer cream in my coffee,” says a voice, thick with an English accent. Dean sighs, convinced it’s far too early—forever too early—to deal with this dick. Balthazar walks to the coffee pot behind Dean and pours himself a cup. Dean glares at his cup, refusing to give Balthazar the satisfaction of a reaction. After the dick is satisfied with his sissy sweet coffee—the same sweetness that Cas drinks, he should mention—he flops down in the chair opposite Dean, a smirk playing on his lips. 

     “You know Cas is at work, right?” Dean says, his voice sour. Balthazar looks unperturbed.

     “Yes, I’m well aware. I was in his bed when he left.” Dean feels his blood heat.

     “So, why are you still here?” Dean asks with a glare that’s nearly palpable. 

     “Castiel said he’d be back for lunch and that I could stay as long as I wanted.”

     “It’s not Cas’ house,” Dean grumbles around his coffee.

     “He lives here, doesn’t he?” Balthazar says, that smirk still littering his face. Dean refuses to let it get to Dean. “You really have it hot for him, don’t you?” Dean’s eyes snap to Balthazar.

     “Excuse me?” Dean says, and Balthazar grins. 

     “You’re desperately in love with the man, and he’s bringing home other men to sleep with.” Dean says nothing, which only encourages the man further. “It’s pathetic really.” Dean stands and begins to walk away, rage overpowering him, but the English accent follows him. “He told me about you,” he calls, and Dean stops, his back to the Brit. “He said that he found you half-dead after you tried to kill yourself. He said that he wished he’d left you. He said that you should have died, especially after what you did to your brother.” Dean’s fist is flying at the man before he even gets the last of the word out of his mouth. His knuckles connect squarely with Balthazar’s cheekbone. His head jerks around, but Dean’s other fist is waiting to snap it back the other way. He lets all of his anger at the man, at the situation, at his life flood into beating the shit out of this snobby bastard. After his lip busts, Balthazar starts to fight back, rising to his full height to dart out of the way. Dean is bigger, but Balthazar is faster; he gets a sharp uppercut in on Dean that sends him stumbling backward into the China cabinet. The crash of the China is nothing compared to the crash of anger in Dean’s ears. 

     “Hey,” a new voice shouts, an old voice really, one that Dean’s been dreaming of for weeks. “What the hell?” Cas screams, pulling the men apart before either of them can kill the other. Cas immediately goes to Balthazar, his fingers brushing over the split lip and bruised cheek. “What the fuck is the matter with you, Dean?” Cas screams. Dean is trembling. An eternity passes. "I think you should go," Cas says to Balthazar, refusing to look either of them in the eye. Balthazar’s eyes snap to Cas, but Cas is unyielding. 

     “Fine,” he says after a moment before leaning in and kissing Cas gently. When he pulls away, Dean watches as Cas looks shyly to the floor, blood from Balthazar’s mouth staining his lips. As Balthazar walks away, Dean sees it, and stifles a hysterical laugh. He is wearing Dean’s sweatpants, the ones Cas wore the morning after they made love. Cas must have given them to Balthazar, too detached to give him his own clothes. Dean lets him walk away wearing them. When the front door closes, Cas turns to Dean.

     “What was that all about?” he asks, anger tingeing his voice. 

     “You wouldn’t understand,” he growls, the humor gone from him entirely, and walks away. He doesn’t make it very far. As his barefoot feet touch the edge of the broken glass mountain, he gasps, having forgotten all about it. 

     “Dean,” Cas sighs, stepping over and pulling a chair into the quickly bloodying shards. Dean sits with a small hiss. Cas disappears into the pantry before returning with a first aid kit. 

     “I didn’t even know that was in there,” Dean says quietly to keep Cas’ mind off what he really wants to ask. 

     “I put it there a few weeks ago after noticing your alarming lack of emergency response items.” Cas kneels before Dean and takes a bloodied foot into his lap. Dean thinks of all the things he could say to Cas in snarky response, but instead, he lets the tinkling of glass returning to the ground fill the silence. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he says after he’s removed the last of the glass and cleaned the cuts.

     “Thanks, Cas,” Dean mumbles, and Cas sighs in response, looking up through his eyelashes at the battered man before him.

     “Why would you do something like this?” Cas asks, his voice a growling current in Dean’s ears. “I thought your asking if Balthazar made me happy was to determine whether you should behave with him or not.”

     “It was,” Dean says quietly. From this position, Cas feels the ghost of Cas’ lips sucking down his cock.

     “So what? The fact that he makes me happy means you should beat the shit out of him?” Cas sounds incredulous, as though he really doesn’t want to believe what’s coming from his own mouth. 

     “No,” Dean says quickly then sighs. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says again, and Cas stands, walking to the refrigerator and pulling a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. He walks slowly back to Dean and gently holds the peas to his eyes. Dean flinches at the coldness. He’s sure his eye will be black tomorrow. “We were having a…heated discussion, and I stood up to leave like the mature adult I am.”

     “So what happened?” Cas presses, and Dean lowers the peas from his face so that his sight of Cas isn’t interrupted.

     “He said that you wished you’d never saved me. He said that I deserved it because I let Sammy die.” Cas’ eyes immediately darken. 

     “I’ll talk to him,” he says after a moment, his voice a deliciously close growl. Dean wants him to kiss the blood from his lips, the pain from his cheekbones, and for a moment, Dean thinks Cas will. The blue eyes staring into him are relentless, thoughtful. An eternity stretches between the moment when Cas meets his eyes and the moment when Dean finds the will to look away. 

     Dean wants to tell Cas he’s sorry. He wants to promise Cas that he’ll get his act together and treat Cas the way he deserves to be treated. Dean wants to tell this to Cas, but in this moment, Dean is furious at all the lies he’s been telling himself. He resolves to be straight with himself from that moment on, beginning with the fact that he isn’t completely straight. 

     He likes the occasional dick. He likes the occasional man, and he damn well likes Cas. As much as he likes Cas though, Dean knows that even without all this mess, he’d never let himself be happy with Cas. Dean knows he doesn’t deserve Cas, and every time a surge of happiness runs through Dean, he runs away. He’d never be able to enjoy the happiness Cas gave him. He would been too afraid to break Cas to love him properly. 

     Cas clears his throat and pulls the peas away from Dean’s face.

     “Hold this to your eye,” Cas says and starts to walk away. Dean watches him for a moment, the urge to call out to him, to stop him, to turn him around and kiss him bubbling up inside him. “Dean,” Cas says, startling him out of his thoughts as Cas turns to look at him. “You know I’d never say that…right?” Cas’ eyes are pleading and sorrowful.

     “Yeah, Cas.” Cas smiles gently and turns to leave. “Cas,” Dean calls before he can stop himself. Cas pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs because it needs to be said; it will eat him alive if it isn’t. 

     “For what? Balthazar deserved what he got if he brought Sam into it.” Cas turns slowly, his face open and sincere. Dean almost smiles. 

     “No, for…what happened.” Dean pulls the peas away from his eyes again. “It wasn’t fair of me.” Bull shit falls from his mouth like rain in the Amazon. “I wasn’t ready for a relationship.” _I was too terrified._ “But Cas, you’re my best friend, and it took you leaving for me to realize it.” _I need you, and that fucking terrifies me._ Cas won’t look him in the eyes. “Look, I know you’re with Balthazar, and that’s fine.” _Lie._ “I need you though.” There, he said it. He said it, and he didn’t melt or combust or keel over. Cas looks up and blinks. 

     “You’re admitting to needing someone?” Cas asks, a small smile playing at his lips. Dean feels his cheeks growing hot.

     “Yes.” The heat spreads to his neck and magnifies. “I need you Cas.” Cas’ smile widens.

     “Now’s where you make some lame movie reference to ruin the serious moment.” Cas voice is light, but his eyes are pleading. They are begging Dean not to write him off as a joke, and for the first time in his life, Dean doesn’t disappoint. He keeps his eyes locked on Cas, praying that Cas cannot see the longing lacing his every blink. “Seriously, no jokes?”

     “None,” Dean says, though every single line from every single movie ever referencing sex is running rampant through his head. Cas watches Dean a moment longer, clearly debating Dean’s honesty. Finally, he breaks eye contact and speaks.

     "Okay," Cas murmurs, but walks away. Dean watches him leave before hanging his head in his hands. 

     “A damn idiot,” Dean scolds into his palms. He's only talking to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

     Balthazar stays away for six whole days, and during that time, Dean and Cas grow closer than ever. It’s almost as if nothing changed, nothing happened. During the day, Dean works on the Impala, and when Cas gets home, he sits on a cooler in the garage and talks with Dean about the awful manuscripts and the great manuscripts. Dean listens happily, trying to ignore the fact that he’s happy. When the weekend comes, they go stay at Cas’ house, a small, one-story house that fits Cas perfectly. Dean sleeps in the same bed he always has—the guest bed—but this weekend, it feels different, warmer in a way that’s more than the thermostat. He doesn’t pretend he’s puzzled as to what it is; if anything, he clings to the warmth like a child. It’s Cas, like everything these days is Cas. Cas’ soft snoring in the room next to his, Cas’ scent drifting constantly through his awareness.

     In the midst of this warmth, Dean picks up a journal for the first time since before Sam died. He writes about the Impala. _She’s close to being back. I’ve missed my baby._ He writes about the library. _It’s empty without Sam…quiet._ He writes about Jess. _Jess called last Saturday, just like she always does, except this time, she sounded happy to hear from me._ He doesn’t write about Cas, but every C he writes winds up capital because, well, damn if he doesn’t _want_ to write about Cas.

     When they return to the library on Sunday afternoon, Dean and Cas laugh the whole drive home. Dean feels good for the first time in a long time, and he rides the high all the way home. He’s watching Cas as they turn in, a smile brushing his lips. That’s how he knows something is wrong, through Cas’ eyes rather than his own. Dean looks up from Cas to find the reason his smile changed. 

     Balthazar sits on the front steps of the library, flowers resting beside him, perfectly wrapped and topped off with a blue ribbon. He rises as Cas pushes open his door, Dean forgotten beside him.

     “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Dean growls, shoving the door open and rising to his full height. Dean approaches Balthazar at Cas’ elbow, every muscle singing to finish what he started last time. Cas walks slowly to Balthazar, his hesitation and discomfort obvious in his every step.

     “Hello, Balthazar,” Cas says, his voice tight. Dean almost laughs at the sound; it means Cas is angry at Balthazar.

     “Castiel,” Balthazar says, leaning forward and kissing Cas gently on the cheek. Dean looks away, clenching his jaw to keep from clenching his fists. When Dean can see Balthazar’s face in his peripheral vision, he finds the will to turn back to Cas. “I brought you these.” Balthazar says, handing Cas the flowers. Dean rolls his eyes. 

     “How fucking romantic,” Dean says, but Cas cuts Dean a look that makes him swallow the rest of his comment.

     “Thank you, Balthazar,” Cas says stiffly. Dean grins at Balthazar in victory because, thank _God_ , Cas dropped the nickname.

     “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I was hoping we could talk.” Balthazar cuts his eyes to Dean who is still standing close to Cas’ side. “Privately,” he says, the malice in his voice very clearly directed at Dean. Dean crosses his arms over his chest, prepared to stay, to protect Cas from this man.

     “Dean,” Cas murmurs, reaching out and putting a hand on Dean’s bicep. 

     “You’ll be okay?” Dean asks after a moment of considering.

     “He’ll be fine, pretty boy,” Balthazar interrupts before Cas can speak. “I’m not the one who screwed him and left.”

     “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Dean snarls, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glares at Balthazar a moment longer before turning back to Cas. “Cas?” 

     “I’ll be fine,” he tells Dean, voice struggling to sound assuring. Dean stares at Cas a moment longer, debating whether or not to stay anyway. After a moment, he turns away from Cas and pushes through the door, bumping Balthazar’s shoulder as he does so. When the door closes, he doesn’t hear Cas telling Balthazar that what he did and said to Dean was unacceptable. He doesn’t hear Balthazar asking if Cas cares anything about what Dean said and did to him. He doesn’t hear Cas telling Balthazar that it’s not the same, and he doesn’t hear Balthazar asking why. 

     When the door shuts behind Dean, he doesn’t hear Cas telling Balthazar that he’d do anything to be with Dean, that he’d give anything for Dean to be happy. He doesn’t hear Balthazar asking why Cas was with him in the first place, and he doesn’t hear the silence that is Cas’ response. He doesn’t hear any of this. The only thing he hears is the door opening as Cas tries to walk away, and Balthazar’s tainted accent calling after him. 

     “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters,” Dean hears Balthazar telling Cas. “We can work it out. “ From his seat in the kitchen, Dean has a perfect view of the front door. He watches as Cas’ back to Balthazar, ready to shut the door between them, becomes Cas back to Dean, ready to work it out with Balthazar.

     Cas drops his voice low, so Dean does not hear him tell Balthazar that his feelings for Dean will not change, will not go away, but he sees Balthazar look down and shift uncomfortably. When he looks up, Dean reads his lips enough to know that Balthazar says his feelings for Cas will not change. Dean looks away. 

* * *

     Balthazar doesn’t stay long, but Dean sees the kiss they share before he leaves. Cas comes back with flushed cheeks and wild eyes. Dean tries not to notice. Cas floats the rest of the evening, a dopey grin on his face. Dean, even though he knows it is for Balthazar, finds himself drawn to that grin. It makes him want to gather Cas to him and suck his dopey grin into his mouth until it becomes like air to Dean. He wants to breath Cas, to live on Cas, but when Cas looks up to Dean, that dopey smile on his face, Dean knows that the night they spent together will be the last... Of all the one night stands Dean has experienced, endured, initiated, Cas has been and will forever be the pinnacle of them all. Cas, the blue eyed man he swore was an angel, has made Dean stop lying to himself. He has made Dean admit his feelings for a man. He had made Dean admit his dependence. 

     “Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says, pausing at the doorway. Dean didn’t realize it had gotten so late, but he tells Cas goodnight anyways before closing the book he’d been blankly staring at for the past three hours. His bed smells like clean linen, much too generic to be Cas’ smell, much too different for Dean to sleep soundly. Even so, Dean sleeps, and when he does, he dreams of Cas. His dream is much like the one he had in the hospital where Cas was a man with wings.

     He awakes to a Monday morning thick with the smell of coffee and bacon. Dean feels as though he’s been blindsided by a bus. Dean barely manages to roll out of bed before he’s throwing up the contents of his stomach, retching until he’s dry heaving. 

     “Fuck,” he groans, rolling away from the pile of vomit and curling into a ball. He tries to beat away the migraine, but all he manages is to make his stomach roll again. After his stomach settles, he gropes around on his bedside table blindly for his phone, and when he finds it, his fingers shake as he dials the number.

     “Hey,” he murmurs into the phone when he answers, his own voice seemingly loud enough to start an avalanche in his mind. “Can you bring me home some Theraflu when you get off work?”

     “Are you sick?” Cas asks, his voice concerned and much too loud.

     “No, I just love the taste of Theraflu,” Dean snaps, and groans as the volume rattles into his head. The smell of vomit is overwhelming. He dry heaves again.

     “Do you need me to come home, Dean?” Cas asks, apparently unfazed by his sarcasm. 

     “No,” Dean tries to say, but heaves again before he can get the entirety of the word out. 

     “I’ll be home soon,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t have the strength to argue with him, doesn’t even have the strength to hang up the phone. 

     Cas finds Dean still curled around the puddle of his vomit, dozing in and out of consciousness. Cas immediately drops to his knees next to Dean, frantically running his hands over his body to check for blood.

     “Dean,” Cas half-shouts as he tries to shake Dean awake. Dean’s green eyes drift open slowly, and Cas practically cries with relief. In his mind’s eye, Dean’s vomit was laced with the entire bottle of antidepressants he keeps on the bedside table. Dean moans before heaving again, tears spilling down his face because he’s empty. 

     “Cas,” Dean manages as Cas slips his hands under Dean’s sweat soaked arms to help him up. 

     “You’re burning up, Dean,” Cas says as he lays Dean back on his bed.

     “M’ head hurts,” Dean mumbles. Cas slips the thermometer between Dean’s lips.

     “Shhh,” Cas says, sitting next to Dean. “I’m going to help.” Cas reaches out and puts his hand against Dean’s cheek, as though that will heal him. Dean is too far gone to notice the gentle touch. The thermometer beeps twice, and Cas pulls it out eagerly. 103.8 degrees.

     “Alright,” he says, setting it on the nightstand before turning back to Dean. “I’m taking you to the hospital.” Cas reaches out to get his hands under Dean again. 

     “No hospital,” Dean grunts, resisting so much that the smaller man has no choice but to stop. “‘S just the flu.”

     “Dean, you have a 104 degree temperature!” Cas’ voice is frantic, scared.

     “I’ll take Tylenol.” Dean’s voice is quiet, as though he wished it didn’t exist at all. “Could you just…get me some blankets or something? I’m freezing.” Cas sighs and leaves to retrieve blankets for Dean. By the time that Dean decides he’s warm enough, the library has been stripped bare of blankets save for the lone sheet on Cas’ bed. 

     “Call me if you need anything else,” Cas says, his voice a whisper as not to inflame Dean’s migraine. Dean, however, doesn’t respond. Cas sighs again and moves to the bathroom to gather cleaning supplies so he can clean Dean’s vomit. 

     Dean, thanks to his raging fever, dreams vividly, but when he wakes, he remembers nothing. He’s sure he dreamt of Cas though—as though that’s something new. When he finds the strength to open his eyes around his migraine, he sees Cas leaving his room; the smell of cleaning solution follows his every step. 

     “Cas,” Dean croaks, and at the sound of his name, Cas turns to look at Dean. “Will you lay with me?” Dean asks blearily. Cas looks at him funny, and that is when Dean realizes that his request, although innocent in nature, is highly inappropriate. “It’s just that,” Dean starts and swallows back another roll of his stomach. “The blankets aren’t enough. I’m still cold.” 

     “Dean,” Cas starts with a sigh. “You’re running a 104 degree fever.”

     “Yeah,” Dean says after a moment. “You’re right. I don’t want to get you sick.” Cas watches Dean a moment longer before stepping closer and slipping out of his shoes. He curls against Dean’s side and tries to pretend he doesn’t love it as much as he does. “Thanks Cas,” Dean says, a chill running through him at the addition of the sudden warmth.

     “Rest,” Cas says, in a small voice. While Dean sleeps, Cas listens to his heart, remembers how it felt to have Dean fill him up. He tries not to compare it to Balthazar, but he knows that Balthazar did not do for him what Dean did. Dean made him forget the world around him, made him feel alive. Balthazar made him forget Dean, if only for a second.

     Balthazar has been wonderful with Cas, really, he has, but he has not made completely relevant movie references. He has not made mouth-watering burgers. He has not made messes for Cas to clean, and he has not made Cas so _abhorrently_ angry that he cannot see straight. He has not made Cas so instinctively happy that he cannot think straight. He is not Dean, but Cas knows he’s trying. 

     Cas is not dumb enough to think that, should Dean have been perfectly well, he’d still have asked Cas to lay with him. Even so, he clings to the sleeping man, praying that God gives him just another moment in Dean’s arms. God, however, has other plans, as He often does. Just as Cas drifts towards the precipice of sleep, the phone in the kitchen rings. He debates letting it ring. He knows that the only people who ever call are Jess and bill collectors, but then he decides that if it is Jess, since it’s not a Saturday, it’s probably important. So Cas begrudgingly unwraps himself from Dean and makes his way to the phone.

     “Hello,” he answers, silently hating whoever forced him away from Dean. 

     “Castiel,” says a voice, thick with an English accent. “You’re not answering your work phone. Is everything alright?” Balthazar’s voice, albeit worried, seems otherwise distracted. Cas sighs. 

     “Dean seems to have come down with the flu, so I took off work to care for him.” 

     Balthazar’s mumbled response sounds suspiciously like, “Of course you did.” Cas tries to pretend he didn’t hear it. 

     “Do you need something Balthazar?” Cas tries to make himself sound concerned. Cas seems to have to try awfully hard when he’s around Balthazar. 

     “Can you take a break from playing Dr. Sexy—” Cas flinches at the name, knowing _Dr. Sexy_ is Dean’s favorite. Balthazar continues, oblivious, “And come have lunch with me? I want to talk to you.” 

     “Okay,” Cas says, glancing back to Dean’s open door. “I’ll meet you in an hour.” After Cas hangs up, he goes into the kitchen and makes Theraflu tea for Dean and takes it to him, along with a thermometer. Cas tells himself if Dean’s temperature is higher than before, he’d cancel on Balthazar. (Part of Cas hopes that Dean’s temperature is higher)

     “Dean,” Cas says as he pushes into his room. Dean groans and rolls away from Cas’ voice. “Dean, wake up. I need to take your temperature.” Dean groans again, but his green eyes eventually flutter open. Cas gives Dean a moment to process his request, and after that moment, Dean’s lips split to allow the thermometer inside his mouth. Dean’s eyes drift shut as they wait to see his temperature, and Cas doesn’t disturb him. When the time comes, Cas pulls the thermometer from between Dean’s lips, his stomach clenching in anticipation. 104.3…Cas’ breath leaves him in a rush.

     “Am I dying?” Dean asks, a small smile teasing his lips.

     “Bite your tongue,” Cas says, shaking out the thermometer and reaching for the tea. 

     “You don’t like me talking about dying, do you?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

     “Not at all,” Cas says, pausing to stare at Dean. For an instant, Cas sees what his life would have been like if he had been ten minutes later to that bridge, if his author had added one more chapter, if his coffee pot had refused to turn on that morning. He tries to imagine his life, had the body he found been dead. He sees himself going to work, having lunch with his coworkers, enjoying his life. He’d be happy, sure, but he’d be totally oblivious that there was something better out there. 

     Dean coughs next to Cas, snapping him out of the empty place where Dean died at the foot of that bridge. 

     “I made you tea,” Cas says, stretching the steaming cup towards Dean.

     “I’m more of a coffee guy,” Dean says around a cough. 

     “It’s got Theraflu in it,” Cas says. Dean makes a face around the taste. He shudders as though that’ll make the taste go away. 

     “I thought you were laying with me,” Dean says, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. 

     “I was,” Cas murmurs as he sits beside Dean’s feet. “But the phone rang, and I thought it might be Jessica or Charlie.” Dean takes another sip of the tea. 

     “Who was it?” he asks. Cas notices that Dean looks pallid, hollow. 

     “It was Balthazar.” Dean’s face falls. 

     “Oh,” he says, bringing the cup to his lips. 

     “Actually, I should call him back.” Dean keeps his eyes on the lip of his mug. 

     “Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks. He coughs nervously before trying again. “Yeah, you probably should.” Cas watches Dean a moment longer before standing. When Cas calls, Balthazar answers on the first ring. 

     “Hey, baby. Couldn’t wait to see me?” Balthazar says, his voice light as thought he’d been drinking. 

     “Actually, I’m going to have to reschedule. Dean’s fever is very high. I want to be here to drive him to the doctor if it worsens.” 

     “Can we meet soon then? I’ve got big news and an important question.” Cas’ heart seems to still in his chest. Balthazar uses his silence to flirt. “Plus, I’ve been missing that tight little ass of yours.” Cas tries to pretend that the flush in his cheeks is because of the heat in the library. 

     “We’ll meet up tonight,” Cas says, torn between dreading the plan and eagerly awaiting it. Cas is a man with needs that Balthazar happens to be eager to fill. That doesn’t make him a bad person does it?

     “I’ll be waiting,” Balthazar says and hangs up. Cas exhales and goes back to Dean. Cas hears the soft snoring before he ever opens the door, so he just doesn’t. He leaves Dean to sleep away his fever and returns to his room to pretend that he isn’t wrecked. He picks up his latest manuscript and delves into the world of underdeveloped characters and compelling plots. He hates it…especially when every green eyed character becomes Dean. After a while of fighting his mind’s eye over the depiction of Green Eyed Man #3, Cas gets frustrated and puts the manuscript down. He digs a pen and paper out of his nightstand and scrawls Dean a note.

     “I’ve gone out with Balthazar. Don’t wait up, but call me should your fever rise or you need anything at all. _Drink your Theraflu!_ ” He leaves it on Dean’s pillow and beelines for the door. 

     Balthazar doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when Cas shows up on his doorstep twenty minutes later. He takes his desperate eyes in with a smirk that begs for sin. Cas lets him, silently praying for Balthazar to take him, to scratch Dean from his mind, his body. Cas wants Dean to be forgotten, but as Balthazar pulls Cas through the door, his hands already sliding to Cas’ ass, Cas knows that tonight will not be the night that he forgets Dean Winchester.


	12. Chapter 12

     Dean sleeps through it all, his dreams raging along all ranges of crazy. The only one he remembers when he wakes is the one with Sam and Mom. He always remembers dreams of them. He catalogues these dreams because Sam always tells him he is worthless, tells him it’s his fault, and sometimes Dean needs reminders. He uses these dreams as punishments, but this dream is a shock to Dean. Sam sits at the kitchen table, a game of solitaire half-unfolded before him. He smiles at Dean, and when he speaks, his voice is his own, not the growling voice of a demon. 

     “I asked Jess what she thought of Cas, and she said he’d have you whipped sooner than you could blink. I said you were too stubborn, and it looks like I was right.” Sam smiles, and Dean’s heart wrenches in his chest. He decides then that even the good dreams of Sam are bad. When he wakes up, they’re over, and that’s harder than seeing him as something he isn’t. The Sam before him looks like Sammy, sweet, lively, Sammy. 

     “Sammy,” Dean chokes out, and Sam stands. Dean knows it’s a dream. He knows it, but he doesn’t stop himself from pulling his grown-ass baby brother against him as he chokes back tears. “God, I miss you,” he mutters, nearly gasping out the words. Sam doesn’t say anything at first, just lets his brother hug him. 

     “He can help, you know,” Sam says finally, pulling away from Dean. 

     “No,” Dean says, looking up to his gigantor baby brother. “He can’t.” 

     “Dean, you aren’t giving him a chance. He can change your life.” Sam’s voice is still his; he sounds like home to Dean. 

     “I miss you, Sammy,” Dean says, tears filling his eyes. “I need you here.”

     “No, you don’t,” Sam tells him with a small smile, hazel eyes large and sympathetic. “When was the last time you ate a slice of pie?”

     “What?”

     “Pie, when was the list time you had pie?”

     “Uh, last year, I guess,” Dean says with a shrug.

     “You need to enjoy yourself more,” Sam says with a smile. “You’ve lived your whole life blaming yourself and denying yourself happiness. Have the damn pie. Fall for Cas. Be happy.” Sam smiles again and fades from his dream before he can be begged to wait, to stay with Dean for just a little while longer. Dean feels empty when Sam leaves, and he almost forces himself to wake up right then, but before he can, a presence he almost forgot makes him turn. 

     “He’s right,” a voice says, one he hasn’t heard since he was four. When Dean looks up, he sees that she looks the same as she did that night as she tucked him into bed, blonde curls falling around her.

     “Mom,” Dean whimpers, the tears returning full force. She smiles gently and steps towards Dean, her hand stretched outward to him. Dean’s face falls into his mother’s hand as he lets her scent surround him. If he thought Sam was home, he had obviously forgotten his mother’s scent. 

     “Dean,” she starts, brushing her thumb over his stubble. “Sam’s right you know. You are way too hard on yourself, baby.” Dean’s eyes drop, ashamed because she’s wrong. He’s failed to turn into the strong and selfless man she was praying for. 

     “No, I’m not,” Dean says, his voice small. His mom’s eyes soften, her smile falls. He has disappointed her. “I deserve everything that happens to me. I brought it all on myself.” This time, when Dean look up, she looks sad, incredibly so. 

     “No,” she says. Her voice is stern, but her hands are still gentle. “You are a good man.”

     “No, ma,” he says, pulling her hand away because of all that’s happened to him, her hand on his face is what he doesn’t deserve. “I’m not who you wanted me to be.” He cannot look at her. He is too ashamed, too sad to see the heartbreak in her eyes when she realizes that he is right. 

     “Dean Winchester,” Mary says, her voice sharp and demanding. “I know _exactly_ who you are, and you are everything I hoped you’d be. You are strong and loving, and I am _proud_ of you.” Dean cannot look at her.

     “You don’t understand,” Dean says, his voice small. “Mom, you don’t know what I’ve done.” He thinks of Sam, of Aaron. 

     “I know what you’ve done, Dean, but the mistakes you’ve made do not get to define who you are. It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy, baby, because you deserve so much better than what you’ve gotten. You astound me when I see how big your heart is.” Dean shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut because he cannot listen to this. It is all too much. She is wrong, and she is his mother, the only person in the world who could get through his thick skull. “Dean, honey, the way you love…it’s _extraordinary_.”

     "It’s a curse,” he says, because she is wrong, and she is making him think she is right. 

     “It’s absolutely world changing.” Her voice is resolved, completely believing. 

     “Stop it,” he says, but not to her. He says it to his subconscious. She is a mere figment of his subconscious. “I ruin everything I touch,” he says and opens his green eyes to her green eyes. They look sad. 

     “You do not. Dean Winchester, you listen here. You are a good man, a very _good_ man. I could not be more proud of you, in this life or the next.” Dean breaks. He sobs like a baby into his mother’s chest, letting her stroke his head and catch his tears. “You are worth it,” she whispers as she holds him, and when he wakes, he can still smell the ghost of her perfume. 

* * *

     Cas wanders in around midnight, his eyes dazed and mouth hanging open a little. Dean is awake, has been ever since Mary told him he was worth it, ever since he read Cas’ note. Needless to say, he didn’t drink his Theraflu. Cas wanders around the bottom floor for while before clomping up the stairs and into his own room. Dean hears Cas’ door shut with disappointment. He tosses throughout the rest of the night, and when light breaks through the blinds, Dean decides that he’s had enough of lying in bed. 

     He finds Cas in the kitchen, hands wringing absently. He looks as though he hasn’t slept.

     “Have fun last night?” Dean asks, Sam’s voice telling him to fall for Cas whispering through his mind. Cas seems to be shocked when Dean speaks, as though he had hadn’t seen Dean walk through the door right in front of him. 

     “No,” Cas says, his brows pulling together in confusion. “Do you feel better?”

     “Yes,” Dean says, and really, he does. He can sit under a single quilt without his teeth chattering and a big, greasy burger sounds appealing.

     “Good,” Cas says and looks around the room as though he had forgotten what he was doing in the kitchen. 

     “You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, and those blue eyes find his once more. 

     “No,” he says, and Dean sits in the chair across from Cas, concern and protectiveness seeping blatantly into his face. 

     “What happened?”

     “He’s leaving,” Cas says, his eyes searching to find Dean’s. Dean feels a thrill rush through him, but mostly, he feels a surge of anger at Balthazar for making Cas so upset that he cannot even register how upset he is. 

     “I need coffee,” Dean says after a while because coffee makes everything better. A few moments later, he finds himself staring at a slowly returning Cas, his fingers wrapped around a mug of sugary-sweet coffee. Dean begins to speak as soon as he knows Cas’ eyes are looking _at_ him instead of through him. “I had a dream about my mom while you were gone,” Dean says, looking down to his mug of black coffee.

     “Yeah,” Cas asks, his eyes suddenly interested. “Was it another nightmare?”

     “No, she was trying to convince me that my character is commendable.” Dean chuckles softly. 

     “She’s not wrong,” Cas says, his face completely earnest. Inside Dean melts, and it’s all he can do to keep from flipping the table between them and kissing Cas.

     “Why are you so nice to me? Even after all I’ve put you through,” Dean asks instead, his voice shaking, but Cas merely smiles.

     “I’m not blind, Dean. I can see you only act how you do because you’re hurting.”

     “That doesn’t excuse it.”

     “No, but it makes me more understanding.” Dean looks up at Cas, his eyes wide. Neither of them say anything for a long while, that is, until Cas clears his throat and speaks. “Listen, Dean,” he says, and the words make Dean’s stomach clench. Lisa said those very words moments before she said she was taking the son he’d come to think of as his own and leaving. They were the words Bobby spoke moments before he told Dean of the inoperable tumor growing in his brain. These words are always, _always_ followed by destruction, and this is no exception. The words break him down for what’s next, make him scared and panicked like a child lost in a grocery store. (Not that he knows what that’s like, having grown up on stale pizza, but he can imagine.) They make him horrified, vulnerable, but Cas knows none of this, so he keeps right on. 

     “Balthazar got offered a job.” Dean’s breath releases in a rush. Cas is staying. “In Europe,” Cas says, and Dean’s joy grows, his hope doubles. Cas is staying, and Balthazar is going far away. “He wants me to go with him.” Balthazar is going far away, and Cas is going with him. 

     “What?” Dean says, blinking away his shock. Cas cannot hold his eyes. 

     “Balthazar got offered,” Cas starts, but Dean cuts him off.

     “No, I heard you,” Dean says, his voice angry to avoid Cas hearing his panic. He fails. “How can you do this? After everything that’s happened!” Cas’ face frowns deeply, and when he speaks, his voice sounds like a rolling storm.

     “What’s happened, Dean?” Cas’ voice slowly gets louder. Soon he will be yelling, and it’s good because Dean _needs_ to be angry. He needs to be mad to push down the panic rising in his chest. “We had sex, and as you so kindly pointed out, so _what_?” Cas’ voice is a shout, with more anger than is really warranted. He is dominating, speaking as though he believes the words. Dean knows better. They both do. Dean had let his guard down for Cas. Cas had opened himself up for Dean. They had fallen for one another in the time it took to tear them apart, and because of this, Dean yells back. 

     “So what?” he screams, but Cas doesn’t flinch. He keeps his face angry, furious set into his mouth. “You’re going to leave? You _can’t_ leave.” Cas’ mouth falls open.

     “Says who? Says you? Dean, I’ve already told you. Being here is a job, a shitty one at that. I get no benefits, no insurance, and the only payment I get smart-ass remarks from you. This is a _job_ , and I have the right to quit if I want to.”

     “So leave,” Dean screams, slamming his cup against the table, its coffee sloshing out over his hands and onto the tabletop. “If you hate being here with me so much, then fucking leave!” Dean feels his hands shaking, his breath trembling as it leaves him. Cas rises slowly. 

     “Maybe I will,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, controlled. Cas never loses control for long, and Dean keeps his in mind as he watches Cas walk away. Cas is almost out of the kitchen before Dean decides he cannot take it. 

     “You’re a fucking coward!” Dean screams, standing so quickly that the chair behind him falls to the floor. Cas doesn’t flinch at the crash, but Dean’s voice freezes him in his tracks. “Leave! Go! I never cared if you left anyway!” Dean’s voice shakes, and he prays to God that Cas doesn’t hear it. 

     “You’re a _liar_ , Dean Winchester, a damn liar.” Cas’ voice doesn’t shake, and he speaks to the door in front of him, his back still squarely facing Dean. “You think I can’t see that you care about me? You think I can’t see the way you look at me?” Cas turns around to face Dean, and the anger inside of him makes room for the panic of earlier. 

     “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean growls, but Cas merely saunters closer. 

     “You care about me so much that you’re scared you’ll break me.” Cas’ voice is deadly calm, lighting the panic and anger in Dean to epic proportions. Dean clenches his fist. “So you shove me away like you shove away everything that makes you happy.”

     “Shut your damn mouth.” Dean trembles in anger.

     “Not this time, baby. I’ve watched you do it, push what you love away.” Cas’ voice is calm, infuriating. 

     “Fuck you, Cas,” Dean spits, clenching his fists tighter to keep from punching Cas. He has never wanted to hit this man so badly in his life. 

     “ _You’re_ the coward, Dean,” Cas says softly, and Dean’s fist connects squarely with Cas’ jaw. Cas gasps in surprise, but when his eyes level back with Dean’s he doesn’t look angry. He just looks at Dean. 

     “I am _not_ a coward,” Dean growls, his hands still trembling.

     “The fact that you just hit me instead of kissed me proves just how much of a coward you are.” The words only make him angrier. Dean swings again, this time, splitting Cas’ lip, dragging his knuckles away bloody. What Dean wants more than anything though, is for Cas to fight back, and he tells him as much.

     “Fight back, damn you!” he screams, his hands trembling violently. “Take control!” Dean reaches out and shoves Cas. As the man stumbles, Dean watches a darkness seep into his blue eyes. 

     “Take control?” Cas growls, reaching up and swiping the blood from his lip. “Is that what you want? For me to take control of the situation? For me to hit you back?” Cas steps closer, his eyes refusing to release Dean. Dean feels himself tense, bracing for Cas’ fist. “Well too bad,” Cas growls, and steps away, turning his back to Dean yet again. 

     “Damn you,” Dean screams, filled to the point of bursting. “Give me a reason to hate you!” When Cas turns back around, Dean finds his shirt front tangled in Cas’ angry hands.

     “Here’s your fucking reason,” Cas growls before his lips smash into Dean’s. Dean’s hands are frantic, demanding, everywhere. Dean’s hands are desperate for Cas because, damn how much he needs this man. Cas’ hands are firm in Dean’s hair, pulling his head closer and closer before jerking him back into the perfect position for their mouths to slot together completely. Dean can only find it in him to groan into the other man’s mouth. 

      Cas lets Dean grope and writhe against him for a while before he decides he’s had enough and backs Dean into a wall, earning himself a small gasp from Dean’s lips.

     “I’m gonna fuck you to pieces,” Cas growls as he slides his hands under Dean’s shirt, hands hot on his skin. Dean merely whimpers in response because never has he wanted to be fucked to pieces more. He expects Cas to go slow with him, because Cas is the kind of guy who would go slow on Dean’s first time—yes, his first time being fucked by a man—but before he knows what’s happened, both of their shirts are on the floor and Cas’ fingers are wiggling into the drawstring of Dean's sweats. Cas’ hips have Dean pinned against the wall, and the fact that Cas is _finally_ taking control has him hard as fuck before Cas ever even touches his penis. 

     “Cas,” Dean groans, but Cas’ lips find Dean’s neck instead, his earlobe, any tender spot he knows will make Dean writhe. When he’s got Dean perfectly distracted by the insistent lips on his collarbone, Cas reaches into Dean’s pants and grabs his dick, sending Dean jumping. 

     “You’re ready for me, aren’t you, Dean,” Cas purrs as he takes Dean’s bottom lip in between his teeth. Dean’s dick throbs, completely hard in Cas’ hands. 

     “Fuck me,” Dean groans before slipping his tongue into Cas’ mouth.

     “Oh, I fully intend to.” Cas says, pulling away and dropping to his knees. He takes Dean’s dick down in one swallow.

     “Fuck,” Dean hisses, his hands and head smacking into the wall behind him. It doesn’t take Dean long. In fact, it takes so shamefully little from Cas that when he pulls off, having swallowed Dean’s come, he looks smug as fuck. 

     “You’re an easy one, baby,” Cas says as he rises back to Dean. Normally, Dean would have said something smart, but all he can think of is the predatory look Cas still has in his eye. This isn’t over for him, and that thrills Dean almost as much as it terrifies him. He kicks his pants to the side. “Turn around,” Cas orders, and Dean’s eyes widen as he obliges. He puts his hands on the wall, his fingers spread wide on the paint. Dean feels Cas’ breath hot on his neck. His hands leave burning trails as they slide down his sides to his hipbones; his mouth leaves wet heat everywhere he touches Dean. Cas’ hand leaves Dean long enough to shimmy his pants around his ankles. 

     When his hands return, they are nudging Dean’s legs apart, and with his hands on the wall, his legs spread, Dean feels vulnerable. Dean hears something squish behind him, but he doesn’t have time to question where the lube and condom came from when Cas’ finger teases at his hole. Dean gasps when Cas pushes his finger inside, but Cas merely laughs. 

     “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Cas growls, and he’s right. By the time Cas has stretched Dean to three fingers, Dean is practically writhing against him. It takes one brush of his prostate for Dean to push back into Cas’ hand enough that Cas decides he’s ready. “I want to see you,” Cas growls into Dean’s ear, his clean hand reaching back around to run over Dean. Dean spins slowly, coming face to face with a hungry-eyed Cas. He has never wanted Cas so bad in his life. Dean tries to kiss him, but Cas twines his fingers into Dean’s hair and pulls him back. Dean thinks he’s going to keep him there, to deny him the ecstasy of Cas’ lips on his, but after a moment of staring at Dean, his lips crash against Dean’s, full fervor. 

     His tongue is demanding, possessive of Dean’s as they writhe against one another, Dean stretched ready for Cas’ cock. As they kiss, Dean wonders if he prepped him for nothing, teased him for nothing more than a blowjob. Dean’s about to say something, about to insist when Cas pushes him flush against the wall, hard cock rutting against Dean’s tender and frankly, interested dick.

     “You’re beautiful, Dean,” Cas murmurs, his lips on Dean’s neck.

     “Fuck me,” Dean says in response, to which Cas jerks Dean from the wall and pushes him into the table, Dean’s cock brushing the varnished wood as he bends him over.

     “Thought you’d never ask,” Cas growls into Dean’s ear. Dean cannot find it in him to laugh. Cas pushes in slowly at first, letting out a groan that Dean matches breath for breath. 

     “Fuck,” Dean hisses when Cas is all the way in. Dean’s cheek is pressed against the tabletop, right where Cas’ hand on his neck demands that he stay. His hands are flat under each shoulder, leverage to push back against Cas with. After the initial thrust, Cas loses it. He pulls out and snaps his hips back into Dean so fast that the other man is glad he had his hands under him. When Cas does it again, Dean finds himself arching into the thrust, pushing his ass back against each time Cas’ hips come in contact with his ass. When Cas’ cock hits Dean’s prostate Dean practically howls, earning himself a nip on the neck from Cas. Cas shoves himself into Dean hard, again and again, relentlessly hitting the spot that makes Dean’s toes curl beneath him.

     “Cas,” he moans, and the man’s hips become erratic. Dean pushes back onto Cas, and the other man’s hand snakes around to Dean’s fully hard dick. He’d give himself points later for bouncing back so quickly. Cas’ hand is quick, perfectly in time with the slamming of his hips into Dean. Each thrust peaks the last so that Cas’ hand is nearly overwhelming. He tells himself that he will not come before Cas, but thanks to the relentless fucking, he doesn’t think he’ll last long. Cas however, comes in Dean with hot spurts and a faltering shutter of his hips. Dean comes seconds later, nearly blacking out with the force of his second orgasm. 

     “Fuck,” Cas groans, slipping out of Dean and straightening himself. “That was fun,” he says, but Dean cannot move from the table yet. He hears Cas moving behind him, running water then pulling on garments of clothes. 

     “Cas wait,” he says after a moment, pushing himself up and turning to face Cas, grimacing slightly at the emptiness inside of him. “Don’t leave,” he says quietly. Cas freezes at his words, his shirt half bunched up under his arms as he pulled it on, his pants still unzipped and unbuttoned. 

     “I can’t do this, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean swallows thickly because, well, he should have known. Everything good runs from Dean. Dean tells himself that he won’t beg. He tells himself that he won’t pressure Cas into staying, that he’ll man up and let Cas move on and be happy. 

     “Please, Cas,” he hears, and it takes him a moment to realize it came from between his lips.

     “I can’t do it, Dean. I can’t handle you pushing me away, and I can’t handle you bringing girls home, and I can’t handle you simply being a fuck-buddy. That’s not what this is for me. That’s not what this has ever been for me.” Cas pulls his t-shirt back into place and runs a hand through his sex-mussed hair. 

     “What about Balthazar?” Dean asks, but Cas shakes his head tiredly.

     “This has nothing to do with him.”

     “He’s your boyfriend.”

     “He’s not you, Dean,” Cas says, his voice exasperated. “I’ve told you before. He’s not _you._ ” Dean lets himself stare at Cas; he lets himself get lost in those eyes. “I can’t stay here, Dean.”

     “Please, Cas,” Dean says quietly, stepping forward—still buck naked—and taking one of Cas’ hands into both of his own. “What can I say to make you stay?”

     “I don’t want you to say anything that would make me stay simply for the sake of making me stay. I want you to mean it.” Cas looks down to Dean’s hands around his own and a sadness washes over him. He slides his hand from Dean’s.

     “Cas,” Dean says, his voice shaking. As he stares at Cas, he evaluates his life. He thinks of all the people he’s let down. He thinks of his mom telling him he’s worth it. He thinks of all the good things he’s thrown away because he was afraid of ruining them, and all at once, he decides that he will not let Cas slip through his fingers. He takes a deep breath and looks back to Cas. “I want you to stay,” he says quietly, and as he watches Cas, he’s suddenly terrified that wanting him to stay will not be enough. He’s terrified that Cas will rebound with, “Well, I wanted you not to hurt me,” and if he were to say that, he’d be right. Dean sees Cas walking away, for good this time, and as he opens his mouth to stop him, a gust of air falls from between his lips.

     “Don’t strain yourself,” Cas says, and Dean, were he not busy losing his shit, would smile because it’s moments like these that remind him why he likes Cas.

     “I fell for you Cas,” he says, the words leaving him all at once, and he knows that when they start, they will not stop until he has said everything. “I did, and it took me a helluva long time to realize it and admit it but I did. I want you to stay. I _need_ you to stay. Without you, I would be dead, but you…you saved me. You wake up and give me a reason live, Cas.” Cas blinks, and standing butt-ass naked in the middle of his kitchen, Dean knows that he will never again feel like Cas sees him so clearly. 

     “You want me to stay,” Cas says, and Dean smiles. 

     “Yes.”

     “And you’ll get over your relationship constipation and let me love you like you deserve to be loved?” Dean almost chokes on the L-word, but he smiles again anyways.

     “Yes.”

     “And you’ll continue to make cheesy movie references and amazing burgers and sex jokes at the worst possible times?”

     “I think I’m a light switch because, baby, every time you walk into the room I get turned on.” Cas rolls his eyes at Dean, a full on grin stretched across his lips. “Please stay.” Cas’ smile fades slowly. 

     “I need to think,” Cas says finally and pushes a hand through his dark hair. “I need to think,” he mumbles again, this time for himself instead of Dean. How easy it would be to fall into Dean, to pretend like nothing ever happened… Cas won’t let himself though. He knows that, should Dean just be saying this, his heart will be well and truly broken, more so than it is right now. So he tells himself, he tells Dean that he needs to think. He fastens his pants and steals one last look at the naked man before him, trying not to let the flutter in his heart make itself obvious. 

     “Cas,” Dean says gently, and Cas turns slowly to him, eyes wide and pleading not to make this any harder on him. “What can I do to prove it to you?” 

     “There’s nothing, Dean,” Cas says after what seems like an eternity. He leaves after that. He leaves the naked man in his kitchen and drives his pimp car to a bar where he remains for the rest of the evening.


	13. Chapter 13

     As Dean watches Cas walk away, he knows what he must do. Dean doesn’t bother with his shirt; instead, he pulls his sweats on and makes his way downstairs. The aisles loom over him, but he isn’t looking for a book. When Cas stumbles through the door hours later, Dean has made significant progress. He expects Cas to look for him, but judging by the heavy footsteps up the stairs followed by silence, Cas is too drunk to notice Dean’s silence. Dean is too immersed in his new project to mind. 

     It takes him the entirety of the day to get the base layer down, and when he’s content, he finds himself sleeping for fifteen hours. Cas is gone when he awakens, and despite Dean wishing he would stay, he’s partially glad. It means he can work on his project without fear of being interrupted.

     Cas thinks of Dean while he’s at work. He thinks just like he said he would last night before he went and got shitfaced. It’s obvious to Cas. He’s completely and totally in love with Dean…but it’ll never be enough. It will never be enough to convince Dean to stay, to let Cas love him like he deserves to be loved. Dean will never change. Cas knows this, and because of this, he calls Jess on the way home. 

     “I’m leaving,” he says when she answers. Her stunned silence sets him on edge, gives him time to doubt himself.

     “Why?” she asks, her voice close to the phone. That is how he knows he has her undivided attention. 

     “He doesn’t want me, and I can’t _not_ want him.” Cas’ voice shakes, but it is too late. It is too late for them.

     “Cas,” she starts with a sigh. “Dean doesn’t think he deserves you.” Cas’ eyes fill. Jess is making this difficult, as if it weren’t to begin with.

     “I can’t stay there,” he says, telling himself as much as he’s telling her. “I can’t stay there and be around him and not have him. I’ll fall to pieces.”

     “Cas,” she starts again, voice sympathetic.

     “Please, Jessica, I’m begging you. Don’t make this harder. I don’t want to leave, believe me. I want to say with him and fix him pancakes on Sunday mornings and screw up his hair just because he’ll let me. I want _him._ I want every inch of his foul mouth and his scarred body and his sculptor’s hands. _Believe me_ ; I want him like the plants want the rain, but I can’t, Jess. He wants a friend, someone safe and uncomplicated, but I physically, mentally, emotionally, _cannot_ be around him and not be in love with him.”

     “Cas,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft and obviously tired. “The bastard’s crazy about you.”

     “I can’t stay, Jess,” he says quietly, his foot pressing the pedal unconsciously to the floor. “Do you think you could stay with him for a while? I don’t want him to hurt himself.”

     “Sure, Cas,” she says finally, her voice resigned. “I’ll get on the first flight out, but you’ll talk to him first, right? I mean _really_ talk to him. Don’t let him do any of his dismissive ‘no chick-flick moments’ type of talking.”

     “Of course, Jess,” Cas says, but he probably won’t. He’ll probably avoid Dean, silently pack his stuff and hide in his room waiting for Jess to arrive. Dean was right. He’s just a coward. Jess is quiet on the other end as though she knows he’s lying.

     “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she says finally, her voice sad. When Cas gets to the library, Dean is nowhere to be seen. A moment of panic washes through him. He sees Dean falling from that bridge, a memory that haunts him constantly. _What if he tried again?_ Cas thinks in a panic, his bag sliding forgotten to the ground. 

     “Dean,” he calls. 

     No response… 

     Cas sets off in a half-jog to Dean’s bedroom. When he tops the stairs, he sees every door open, every room empty. Turning on his heels, Cas bounds down the steps. He swings corner after corner, panic chasing him through more and more Dean-less rooms. 

     “Oh, God, don’t let him be dead,” he whimpers, his frantic steps turning into a full-out run. “Dean,” he screams, slamming into the garage in just enough time to see Dean pushing out from behind a curtain in the corner, his eyes wild. 

     “What? What’s wrong?” Dean asks, skidding to a halt in front of Cas. Cas flings himself at Dean, unable to help himself. 

     “Damn you,” he whines into Dean’s neck. He smells like oil and plaster.

     “Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asks, pulling Cas away gently. “You look terrified.” 

     “Are you okay?” Cas asks with a tremor in his voice. His eyes rake over Dean, taking in the dark splotches of deep red on his shirt, covering his hands. Cas jumps to the conclusion that it is blood, that Dean is slowly bleeding out from his wrists. 

     “I’m fine,” Dean says confusedly before following Cas’ line of sight to his crimson hands. “Oh,” he says, his hands slipping behind his back self-consciously. “It’s paint. I was thinking of repainting down here. It’s nothing.” Cas’ heart rate slowly returns to normal.

     “You’re okay,” Cas says quietly, his hands still shaking by his sides.

     “I’m fine, Cas,” Dean says gently, a reassuring smile embellishing his handsome face. “Geez, you were really worried.”

     “I thought,” he starts, reaching up and pushing a hand into his hair. “Never mind,” he murmurs.

     “You sure,” Dean asks, and Cas forces himself to smile.

     “Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine.” Cas offers Dean a small smile, but as he turns to leave, an ache in his chest stops him cold in the threshold. _I can’t leave him,_ he thinks, panic racing through his blood again. “You have to,” he tells himself firmly, his voice bouncing slightly off the empty walls. 

     “What was that?” Dean asks, and Cas deflates.

     “Nothing. I’ll make some dinner.”

     “Great. I need to talk to you.” Cas glances back to Dean, but the other man is turned away from him, midstride back to the curtained off corner where he was before.

     “So do I,” Cas says quietly. If Dean hears, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he goes back to the tiny corner of the garage he’s quarantined himself in for the last three days and sits before his piece. Dean finishes his sculpture just as Cas finishes dinner upstairs. Dean is excited. He feels like this is what will make Cas stay. He calls the piece “Angelus est in Inferno,” and it will be his saving grace. He has put everything he has left into this sculpture.

     He bounds up the stairs to where he knows Cas awaits. He is excited, more excited than he’s been in years. He’s forgotten the thrill of unveiling a new piece, the ache in his gut of knowing he’s bared his soul in a sculpture and people are getting ready to judge it. Cas sits at the table and stares blankly at the spread of food before him. Dean sees all of his favorites, burgers and bacon and pork. He also sees Cas’ bags, four large suitcases pressed against the wall, filled and zipped. The air leaves Dean in a rush, the excitement draining to dread. 

     “You’re leaving,” Dean says quietly, the smile slipping from his lips. The words aren’t a question, not really; they are really just begging for an explanation.

     “Yes,” Cas says, looking up at Dean with expressionless eyes. “I am.” Dean’s knees weaken beneath him.

     “Why?” Dean asks quietly, a hand unconsciously rising to his chest, as though he can rub away the heartache. “Did I…was it…why?” Dean falls into the chair across from Cas.

     “I can’t be here any longer,” Cas says quietly, unable to look Dean in the face. “Jess will be here soon.” Dean doesn’t say anything; what’s left to say? It has finally happened. Cas has finally had enough of him. Dean slowly loses himself. Depression creeps up around him, chilling him to the bone and silently choking him. “You should eat,” Cas says finally, but Dean doesn’t think he could eat if he tried. He thinks he’s going to be sick. 

     They sit in silence for a while longer before Cas sighs and stands. He straddles the threshold by his bags, hesitating, but Dean doesn’t see. All Dean can see is Cas walking away. He feels empty. He feels betrayed, but instead of getting angry at Cas, he stares at the grains in the wood. _You are so stupid,_ he tells himself silently. _You push everyone away. Everyone leaves. What made you think Cas would stay? You are worthless._ He unconsciously rubs his thigh, right where the word has been scratched into his skin, the same scar opened again and again each time this intense self-hatred washes over him. This time though, all he can do is circle these same three words in his mind. _You are worthless._

     Dean loses nearly six hours sitting at that table, staring at nothing as his heart breaks. Eventually, he finds himself in his room ready for bed. He sleeps, all the while feeling nothing but emptiness, those words still chasing him. When he wakes, he stares out of the window for a while before going downstairs. Cas is in the kitchen, and the very sight of him makes Dean ache. Cas pales when Dean enters, but Dean cannot look at him anyway. Instead, he silently fills a cup with coffee and leaves the kitchen to Cas. He finds himself in Sam’s room, as he often does when the depression is winning the battle against him. Dean is too numb to do anything but sit on Sam’s bed and drink his coffee. 

     “I’m going to my house to tend to the bees,” Cas says from the door. Dean didn’t hear him walk up. “Would you like to join?”

     “You don’t want me alone right now,” Dean murmurs, staring at the picture of him and Sam at fifteen and eleven. Bobby had taken them fishing, and baby-faced Sam was grinning over a baby bass he’d caught. They were both dead now. 

     “I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Cas says gently, but all Dean can hear is Sam’s laughter from that day, the way it mingled with the gasping of the fish. Maybe Dean could have been that fish in another life…clinging to Sam because he was the only thing in the world that could give Dean life. 

     Cas lets Dean sit in silence through the drive, as though Dean could have carried out a conversation otherwise. The only thing he is capable of doing is watching the miles pass by beneath Cas’ wheels. His hands are still stained red from the paint of his sculpture, but the hardened clay no longer matters. It was all for Cas, but Cas has made up his mind. He has finally agreed that Dean isn’t worth the trouble. 

     Dean ghosts his way through two nights at Cas'. He can’t remember the last time he used his voice. Cas tries, but Dean can’t keep the voice from slipping in one ear and out the other. Most of the time, Dean finds himself staring blankly at the wall, the TV, the curve of Cas’ nose. He’s looking at them, sure, but he’s only seeing himself alone again. He sees himself as alone as he was when Sam died. He sees the library quiet and dark, and he sees his depression pressing down on him, smothering him like the humidity in the jungle. Dean does not know how long he’ll last after Cas. Dean does not know if there will be an after Cas. 

     Sunday afternoon finds Dean staring at the sculpture he dedicated to Cas… He stares at the thing for a long time. He debates destroying it, taking a mallet to it the same way he took a mallet to the Impala. He debates showing Cas. It _was_ his last ditch effort after all, but the demon of insecurity tells Dean that it will not be enough, that _he_ will not be enough. Eventually, Dean blinks and makes his way back upstairs. 

     Cas’ gruff voice carrying through the library catches Dean’s attention for the first time in days. Maybe it’s because he’s worrying around in the kitchen and living room, cell phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. He’s gathering his things in his arms, small odds and ends that Dean had gotten so used to seeing that he had forgotten weren’t his. Dean’s attention almost slips away…he doesn’t want to watch Cas leave. It’s almost easier to see nothing than to watch Cas leave, but before he can return to that detached state of mind, he hears Jess’ voice through the phone. 

     “Yeah, my flight got delayed because of the snow up there.” Dean glances to the window, and sure enough, white flurries are drifting slowly to the already covered ground. Dean recognizes numbly that October is early for snow, even in Vermont. “I’m stuck in Atlanta until the snow clears.” Cas pauses long enough in his whirlwind of reclaiming to take notice of Dean, as though he hadn’t been sitting on the couch the whole time. 

     “Okay,” Cas says slowly, locking eyes with the currently present Dean. “We’re fine here,” he tells her, and Dean blinks numbly. _Cas is fine here._ He hears Jess’ response, but he would have known what she said simply by the way Cas’ eyes rake over him. 

     “How is he?” she asks, and Cas hesitates.

     “Do you want to talk to him?” Cas asks her in lieu of an answer. Dean stares at Cas even as he passes the phone and forces Dean to speak. 

     “Hey, Jess,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

     “Hey, kid,” she says in a cheery tone that is clearly just for Dean’s benefit. Dean says nothing. After a while, Jess tries again. “Hey, I’m bringing _Halo 4_ , and I’m gonna kick your ass.” She laughs, but Dean can’t find the will inside of himself to even fake a smile. Cas’ eyes are hopeful on his face, and if he weren’t so exhausted of causing Cas pain, he’d remind him that this relapse into depression is his fault. 

     “I’m sure you will,” he tells Jess finally. All three of them fall silent. “Here’s Cas,” Dean says after a long moment. He hands the phone back to Cas, blinks, and walks to his room. He watches the snow fall for a few minutes—or hours, who can say really?—before a knock sounds at his door. Cas does not wait for a response before pushing the door open.

     “I ordered Chinese,” Cas says, crossing the room to where Dean sits in the windowsill. Dean blinks at the falling snow. “Come on. It’s chow mein, your favorite.”

     “Not hungry,” Dean murmurs, and Cas sighs. 

     “When was the last time you ate?” Cas asks, but Dean doesn’t remember. He doesn’t answer. “Please don’t be mad at me, Dean,” Cas says finally, stealing Dean’s attention away from the blanketing snow. 

     “What?” Dean asks dumbly, blinking and looking to Cas.

     “I don’t want to leave here with you angry at me, Dean,” he says, stepping towards Dean and reaching out to him. Dean stares uncomprehendingly at his hands. 

     “I’m not, uh,” Dean says, still blinking dumbly. 

     “Dean, just let me get this out,” Cas says quickly. “I just, I really need you to understand.” Dean blinks. “I know you think I’m leaving because of what you said, and I guess in a way, I am. Not because I don’t want to be with you, though, just the opposite really.” Cas’ eyes fall to the floor. Dean struggles just to grasp what Cas is saying. Cas takes a deep breath and looks to the window, watching the snow build on the ground. “It seems that I’m in love with you, Dean,” Cas says, his voice quiet and gruff. Dean turns his face away from Cas, following his line of sight to the falling snow. Despite the small warmth growing in Dean from the fact that Cas is in love with him, Dean is speaking only to the cold. They both are.

     “If you’re really…you know,” Dean says, because never will Dean not be constipated with love. “Then why are you leaving?” Cas sighs. Dean feels the warm breath on his arms. 

     “I’m not enough to save you,” he says quietly, and something inside Dean knows that Cas is right. Cas isn’t enough to save Dean. The love of one man cannot stop his depression, but Cas gives Dean a reason to want to live. 

     “So you’re afraid?” Dean asks quietly, but the rest of his thought goes unspoken. He wants to tell Cas that he’s afraid too…that it’s been so long since he’s let himself love someone…that he no longer wants to see a world without Cas. 

     “It’s what’s best, Dean,” Cas says quietly, reaching out and taking Dean’s hand into his own. Dean wants to fight him. He wants to fight _for_ him. 

     “Is this what you want, Cas?” Dean asks, finally looking away from the snow and squeezing Cas’ fingers lightly. Cas looks away from the snow as well. 

     “Yes,” Cas says, but Dean fails to see the lie in his eyes. Dean will let this man that he loves—yes, he’s in love with the bastard—walk away because that is what Cas wants. 

     “Then I guess there’s nothing else to it,” Dean tells him quietly, and Cas' eyes turn so sad that Dean has to turn away.


	14. Chapter 14

     The snowstorm keeps Jess in Atlanta for three days. It keeps Cas home from work for three days. It keeps Dean staring as the sky falls for three days. Cas eventually coaxes chili into him, but it does nothing to fill the emptiness inside of him. 

     Jess shows up on Thursday, smile in tow as she pokes her head into Dean’s room. Again, he sits at the window, watching the snow slowly drift down. She looks concerned beneath her vibrant smile, and Dean manages to fake a probably not-so-convincing smile in reply. 

     “Hey, Deanie,” she says, pushing the door open the rest of the way and stepping inside. 

     “Hey, Jessie,” he says in reply, knowing she hates being called ‘Jessie.’ She rolls her eyes.

     “How have you been?” she asks carefully. She looks as though she’s handling a bomb. 

     “Well,” he starts, putting his feet to the ground and stretching. It’s all an act. Dean no longer cares about the cramps in his legs or the strain in his back. “He loves me,” Dean says with a smile that’s not so forced. “But he’s still leaving.” Jess’ face turns sympathetic. “So, I’m losing him, my depression is absolutely _raging_ , and soon, I’ll be all alone again.” Dean pauses as the weight of what he said pushes against him. _I’m going to be alone again._ “I’m fan-fucking-tastic,” he says when the weight in his chest weakens enough to speak.

     “ _I’m_ here,” she says quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed to face Dean.

     “You’ll go back,” Dean tells her, and her eyes fall. “It’s not your fault, Jess,” he says and takes her hands in his. “You have a beautiful life back in California. You’ve _built_ yourself a beautiful life, and you deserve to enjoy it. I just…” Dean’s voice drops a decibel. “I found something in Cas, you know. I wanted him to stay, and he said he would. He’s leaving though, and it sucks.” He squeezes her hand gently. “But I’ll be fine.” _Lie._

* * *

     Cas cooks dinner. Dean doesn’t eat. He knows that Cas will leave tomorrow. Jess will stay for a while, but eventually, she will leave. Hell, even if she never left, she will never be Cas. For all she may try, she is not his four o’clock worried phone calls. She is not his sloppy hair in the mornings or his laughter over nature documentaries. She is great. She is a saint in a sinner’s body. She is wonderful and nurturing and everything he would have ever wanted for his brother. She was the light of Sam's life, but Cas is his. 

     Jess tries to make conversation over dinner, but her words have no meaning to him. Soon, dinner is over, and they are all expelled to their respective rooms to pretend like the world is not coming apart at its seams. Dean doesn’t sleep that night—as if he had really expected to—and when the sun presents itself above the neighboring buildings, Dean rises to face the hell awaiting him. Cas is sitting quietly in the living room, and Jess is nowhere to be seen. 

     “Hey, Dean,” he says with a small smile. Dean is too tired to fake a smile back. 

     “Where’d Jess go?” Dean asks, sitting on the opposite end of the couch Cas is on and facing forward, refusing to look at him. 

     “She went to get breakfast. She’ll be back any minute,” Cas says gently, that fake smile still clouding his voice. Dean has no response. “Why don’t you let me get you some coffee?” Cas suggests finally, and Dean lets him, bending his fingers anxiously to avoid brushing Cas’ as he hands him the cup. Even a simple touch such as that would be far too much, far too difficult, far too devastating.

     “This could have been us, Cas,” Dean blurts, the words leaving his lips before he gives them permission. Cas doesn’t look startled.

     “What, Dean?” he asks, much to Dean’s panic because, wait! He didn’t mean to let that slip out! Can’t we just pretend he never said anything? Alas, Cas is staring at Dean, patiently awaiting his answer.

     “This,” Dean says finally, motioning to his coffee and bedraggled appearance. “The coffee and the sleepy mornings and the happiness.” Dean clears his throat because he’s never been good at relationships, at communication. 

     “This _is_ us, Dean. I just handed a sleepy you coffee at,” he pauses to check his watch. “Nine twenty-four in the morning.”

     “But you’re leaving,” Dean says, staring quite blatantly at Cas.

     “I can’t stay, Dean,” Cas murmurs, unable to hold Dean’s eyes any longer. “You know I can’t stay.”

     “I want you to stay,” Dean says, and Cas sighs.

     “No you don’t. You’ll get sick of having me around. You always do.” Cas’ voice is sad, irrevocably so, so much so that Dean is stunned into silence. He is rapidly searching for a way to tell Cas that he did not, could not tire of him, that he was merely terrified by how much he wanted him.

     “Hey guys,” Jess calls from downstairs before Dean can form the words.

     “So what?” Dean asks after a moment of tense silence. “This is goodbye? You’re going to leave and act like this never happened? You’re going to pretend you never met me? Lose my number? Never speak to me again?” Dean’s hands shake around his hardly-touched coffee. He tries not to wonder whether their trembling should be accredited to his anger or his fear. 

     “I’ve said it before, Dean. I can’t pretend I never met you.” Cas’ eyes finally level with Dean’s.

     “I brought breakfast. Who wanted the,” Jess stops as she bounces through the door, greasy sack in hand. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?” She asks quietly. Dean reluctantly tears his eyes away from Cas’ to look at her. He debates lashing out at her, but with a sigh, he shakes his head and stands.

     “Nothing that was going anywhere,” he mumbles just loud enough for Cas to hear. Dean excuses himself to the garage to avoid looking at the sculpture and work on Baby, and the next time he resurfaces from under the body of the car it’s because Jess’ shrill voice is screaming over the Styx album he’s got blaring to drown out his own thoughts.

     “Dean,” she yells again before finding his stereo and silencing it with an angry flick of her wrist. Dean rolls from under the car and sits up irritably. 

     “Is there a reason you stopped James Young just seconds before his greatest solo in rock history?” he asks sarcastically, but she merely rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed by his douchebag routine.

     “Cas is leaving,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Dean blinks up at her with an uncaring face before lying back on the old skateboard he’s using as a creeper and rolling under his car.

     “Yeah, I know,” he says, reaching up to tinker, to busy his hands from raking his nails down his wrists. He’s just gotten his grip when he’s dragged out from under the car by his ankle. “Hey,” he yells, snatching his leg away and sitting up to glare at the crouched blonde before him.

     “Cas is leaving,” she says again, slower this time, more deliberate with her words.

     “Yes, Jessica, I’m fully aware that he is leaving. Do you want me to cry?” he asks sarcastically, but once again, she is unimpressed.

     “I want you to tell him goodbye,” she says, and Dean frowns.

     “He’s leaving anyways. What difference will a goodbye make?” he asks, and she groans.

     “My God, you are impossible,” she says, standing and turning to leave. Dean looks down to the greasy mess of his hands. “What’s that?” Jess asks, and Dean looks up to her. Her eyes are trained on the sheet pulled close over his sculpture. 

     “It’s nothing,” he says as nonchalantly as possible in an attempt to divert her attention, but she is already headed towards it. “Jess, don’t,” he says, fumbling to stand and stop her. The sculpture is embarrassing in hindsight. It was something he made solely for Cas, but now it is a reminder that his soul wasn’t enough. It’s not something he wants Jess to see because he knows that she’ll _know_ and the pitying look on her face would be the last straw.

     “Why? It’s just,” she starts, stepping around Dean and reaching for the sheet.

     “Jessica, stop,” he says, deflecting her arm from the sheet. His frantic tone of voice catches her attention. “If you care about me at all, you won’t.” Her hand falls to her side.

     “Sorry,” she murmurs, but Dean has already forgotten. The only thing he can focus on is the crunch of gravel from outside. Cas is gone. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat at the mere thought.

     “I can’t do this,” he says quickly, panic rising in his chest. Jess watches it overcome him, helpless to stop it.

     “Hey, hey,” she says, taking his wrists to ground him, to keep his hands away from himself. She doesn’t mind the grease. She doesn’t mind the scars. “Look at me,” she demands, and Dean’s eyes dart to hers. “I’m here, Dean. Look at me,” and he does, all the while trying not to think about the fact that Cas is gone. 

* * *

     Life without Cas, for Dean, hardly qualifies as a life at all. He works on Baby in the morning—a way to run. He watches movies with Jess in the afternoons—a reason to stay. He drinks himself into oblivion at night—a way to forget it all. It’s hardly been a week—seven days, six hours, forty-one minutes, seventeen seconds—since Cas left, but Dean feels as though he’s already lived a lifetime since he last saw Cas. Nothing is the same with him gone. The silence mocks him, reminds him that he’ll never be enough to make anyone want to stay, so he keeps noise going nonstop. He plays music while he works, blares the television while he watches, sleeps with the rustle of fans. 

     Missing Cas is its own kind of excruciation. It is the rug beneath Dean being ripped from under him every morning that he wakes up to an empty coffee pot, an empty driveway, an empty bed. It is Dean reaching for the phone a hundred times and never finding the nerve to call. It is Dean watching that dumb nature show and looking to where Cas is supposed to be sitting to tease him about the cheesy grin on his face and seeing emptiness. It is Dean waking up covered in sweat because his nightmare told him Cas left but reality _is_ the nightmare. Missing Cas is Dean pretending never to have loved him at all…and failing as miserably as he fails everything else. 

     “Dean,” Jess yells over the noise of the television, startling him out of the numbness he’s allowing himself to become a part of. His eyes drift to hers through his beer-induced haze. Her speech is a bit slurred as well. “There’s no more beer.” Dean blinks at her stupidly. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a messy knot atop her head, and the sweat pants she’s wearing are ragged and clearly on their last leg. Dean blinks again, still processing her words before his eyes drift down to the now empty cooler he’s placed at their feet. 

     “There’s more in the garage,” he tells her and lets his eyes go back to the numbing television. Numb, Dean decides, is a very good adjective for what he feels inside. He feels nothing. He feels the emptiness of what Cas left behind. 

     “I don’t suppose you’d go get it,” she says, a small whine in her voice to which Dean snorts. 

     “Nope. That’s all you, Jessie.”

     “I hate you,” she says before pushing herself up and leaving for the garage. It never occurs to Dean that his sculpture is down there, and it never occurs to Dean that the mystery of that item has been enough to send Jess into itching fits. It never occurs to Dean that, the moment she pulls off the sheet, the gasp that falls from her lips fills the entirety of the garage. It never occurs to Dean that she, in the solitude of his garage, would whip her phone out and call Cas, swearing he’s left something very important behind, and _no,_ she won’t _just tell him what it is_. It never occurs to Dean that the reason it takes little Jessica eighteen minutes to get a six pack of beer is because she’s staring at his soul, and it never occurs to him that she’s smiling like a goon when she comes back because Cas happens to be on his way home, so, _alright, he’ll just swing by and get it._

     She tosses the six pack into his lap as she passes by and sits beside him with a grunt. They watch the rest of the episode in silence, that is, until a knock on the door resonates through the building. Dean looks up, startled, and glances to Jess who is watching him expectantly. 

     “Now would be when you go open the door, Casanova,” she says and gives his leg a small kick to get him up.

     “Oh shut up,” he grumbles as he makes his way down stairs. The tile beneath his feet is cold, and he reminds himself for the millionth time to get carpet for the downstairs. “Yeah,” he asks, swinging the door open and squinting against the setting sun assaulting him.

     “Hello, Dean,” he says, voice like thunder and home.

     “Cas,” Dean croaks because dear God, it’s really him. It’s really Cas. He’s really here. Dean blinks just to make sure that this isn’t some cruel tease, some fleeting dream he’ll soon wake up from. Cas is still there when he opens his eyes. He fights the urge to burst into laughter at the same time he fights the urge to burst into tears. He gapes quietly, just barely keeping himself from snatching Cas to him and holding him so that he’ll never leave again. God, he’s missed Cas. Cas smiles softly.

     “How have you been?” Cas asks, as though his leaving did not tear a ravaging hole inside Dean.

     “What are you doing here?” Dean asks after a beat of silence. Cas’ smile falters.

     “Jessica said I left something important behind,” he tells Dean, looking around Dean to the inside of the library. It is a mess, housekeeping having fallen down on Dean’s priority list. Usually, the first thing is _don’t let Cas’ absence destroy you,_ and it usually takes him the entirety of the day. Dean blinks in confusion.

     “Uh,” he starts, letting his arm fall so Cas can step inside, out of the chilling wind. Cas smiles appreciatively at him as he stomps the mud off his shoes onto the welcome mat he brought and left. “I don’t remember seeing anything,” Dean, distracted by the way the rainwater plays on the light in Cas’ hair, says slowly. _He looks good, happy,_ Dean thinks, noting the light in Cas’ smile, the small crease beside his eyes. 

__“Oh, hi, Cas,” Jess says, leaning over the banister of the stairs, the gleam of trouble in her eyes. “Yeah, uh, it’s down in the garage.” Her eyes snap to Dean. “Dean, why don’t you go with him?” Dean squints at her, smelling something in the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes._ _

     “He lived here for _months_. I think he knows where the garage is." 

__“Just go with him. It’s heavy. He won’t be able to move it alone.”_ _

__“Jess, there’s nothing of his in there. The only thing that’s in there is the Impala and my…” The realization hits him all once. “You looked!” He shouts, but her smirk is infallible._ _

     “It _is_ his, isn’t it, Dean?” she asks, and turns away, leaving the two men alone, one confused and the other angry. 

__“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, and his name on Cas’ lips sounds as much like a hallelujah as it ever has. Maybe it’s Dean’s hallelujah. Maybe it’s Cas’ voice that is the hallelujah. Dean sighs._ _

__“Come on,” he says, turning for the garage as the last of his pleasant buzz fades into oblivion. “I’ll show you.” The walk to the garage seems to take hours. Every step is excruciating. Every step begs Dean to turn around, to tell Cas that nothing of his is in there. Every step is echoed by Cas’, and it’s that rhythm that becomes the cadence of his bravery. He leads Cas into the garage, silently excusing the mess. The stench of dried paint is one last plea for Dean to stop, to pretend that this never happened. Dean pulls the sheet away from his sculpture._ _

__Cas says nothing for a long time; he merely stares at the clay Dean so painstakingly carved as his last plea for Cas to stay. His mouth is slightly agape. His hands tremble by his side. Dean looks at Cas looking at the sculpture, but Cas doesn’t notice._ _

__“It’s…it’s us,” he says finally, and it is. Dean had sculpted Cas, magnificent, glorious, powerful Cas. He had given Cas wings, massive black wings, wings that would make true angels envious with their dark and gleaming glory. Cas, sculpture Cas that is, has an expression of solemnity on his face, but his beauty is no less prevalent. Sculpture Dean is small compared to Cas, because the sculpture is supposed to be about Cas, but the wonderstruck look in sculpture Dean’s face is large enough to tell what real Dean has never been able to. The sculpture Dean is looking at Cas like he is his entire world, and in the small reality Dean crafted for him, he is. The angel Cas has left a mark on Dean, a handprint on his shoulder that is both possessive and freeing. This, Dean supposes, is where the angel gripped him tightly to raise him from perdition. Most of Dean is painted a violent red, a sharp contrast to the beige of Cas’ trench coat—the one that real Dean could never get enough of—but the handprint on sculpture Dean’s shoulder is slowly and entirely washing away the stain, the flaw, leaving Dean his natural color of freckled pale._ _

__“I call it, ‘Angelus est in Inferno,’” Dean says quietly, and he watches as the words get lost in Cas’ head. “It means ‘An Angel in Hell’.”_ _

__“Dean,” Cas says finally, but Dean cannot look at him. He is too afraid to hear that it means nothing, that it isn’t enough. “It’s…” Cas fumbles over the words, and Dean speaks to save them both the pain of having to say the words._ _

__“It’s okay…you don’t have to say anything, Cas. I wasn’t expecting anything to come of this. Hell, I wasn’t even going to show you because I thought that—” Dean’s voice is cut off by Cas’ lips slamming into his, Cas’ hands trapping his face, pulling at his hair and his ears and his jaw to get him closer. He is so startled and pleased that he gasps, giving Cas a chance to lick into his mouth, to taste him for any changes that might have presented themselves since the last time he possessed Dean like this._ _

__“Dean,” Cas says, when he finally pulls away. Dean’s hands are tangled in Cas’ hair, refusing, refusing, _refusing_ to let him leave again. “You did this for me?” he asks, his lips swollen from Dean. Dean swallows thickly._ _

__“Yeah, Cas…I did,” he says, unable to hold Cas’ eyes. Cas presses their foreheads together to make up for the loss of eye contact._ _

__“You started sculpting again…for me,” he asks before stretching out to brush his lips against Dean’s._ _

__“I wanted you to stay,” Dean murmurs by way of explanation. He closes his eyes and lets Cas’ nearness wash over him. He tries to enjoy it recklessly and not worry about the moment he’ll have to let Cas go._ _

__“Is that what you still want?” Cas asks, the gruffness gone from his voice and replaced by a small tremor that has Dean opening his eyes and pulling away to look at Cas. The man looks terrified, absolutely scared to death of what Dean will say, as though he thinks Dean could say anything other than yes, yes, yes, a hundred times yes._ _

__“Oh, God, you have no idea,” Dean says before leaning forward and trapping Cas’ lips with his own again._ _

__“I’m so sorry,” Cas whimpers into Dean’s mouth, and Dean swallows down the apologies and lets them fill the empty space Cas left. It’s not long before he begins muttering out apologies of his own, slipping them between Cas’ lips to tell him he’s sorry, that he never wants to see a life without Cas, that goodbye almost destroyed him._ _

__“Please don’t go,” Dean murmurs, tugging gently at Cas’ hair to ground him. “Please,” he begs, and Dean is not one for begging. Cas’ staying is the only thing Dean cares about. Nothing else, no person, no event, no miracle matters to Dean in this moment. He only cares about Cas._ _

__“Never,” Cas says against Dean’s lips. “I’m never leaving again.” They stay in the garage for a long time, kissing and apologizing even though they’ve both already forgiven the other. Dean clings to Cas the whole time, refusing to let him leave even though the blue eyed man says he’d never dream of it. Dean, in these moments with Cas, is needy and clingy and reliant, and Cas lets him be because he knows that right now, Dean just needs to hold what he cares about and feel it care about him too._ _

__Jess doesn’t disturb them. She sits smugly on the couch and mentally pats herself on the back for putting the Humpty Dumpties back together again. When they come upstairs hand in hand, she whoops in victory, bringing a small smile to Cas’ lips. Dean pokes his head into the living room, still gripping Cas’ hand like the lifeline he is._ _

__“I’m still mad that you looked," he tells her, glaring her smug grin into a slightly shamed smirk. He glances back to Cas, his annoyance at Jess softening as he thinks of all the days he would have spent wishing he were dead had Jess not intervened. “But thank you.” Her smirk softens into a genuine smile._ _

__“I love you, Dean,” she says gently, that softness lacing into her voice as she smiles up to the man who should have been her brother. Dean smiles at her and lets himself remember her at fifteen. He decides that maybe she hasn’t changed at all. Granted, she’s no longer the baby-faced girl with braces and acne that Sam fell in love with, but still, she is the girl Dean kissed to show Sam she wouldn’t bite. Leaving California on a dime is something fifteen-year-old Jess would have done just as quickly as twenty-five-year-old Jess._ _

     “I love you too, Jessie,” Dean says with a grin. Jess rolls her eyes, but she cannot hide her smile. When Dean turns back to Cas, his breath catches in his throat as he takes in the small smile resting on Cas’ lips, the frantic state of his hair, the consuming flush in his cheeks. Dean has finally won. He has finally caught a break. He has finally gotten Cas, and as he brings the back of Cas’ hand to his lips, he knows that he will never let another moment go by that he cannot call Cas his own. This is it for him. _Cas_ is his happy ending. 


	15. Chapter 15

     They become inseparable. They become the couple everyone envies. They become the dynamic duo, no longer Cas, no longer Dean, but Cas and Dean. Seeing as they’ve already been to Hell and back together, there aren’t very many firsts in their lives, save for the first time Dean admits his love for Cas. Even that is not a big deal. It is a simple fact, as true and as obvious as is the fact that the sky is blue, and upon admission, Cas merely smiles and pulls his boyfriend to their bedroom to remind Dean of all the reasons he loves him. They do that a lot. They do _it_ a lot. They find solace in each other and delight in each other every chance they get…literally. 

     Jess calls every Saturday right on schedule, and Dean tells her of the glorious messes Cas always leaves the bed in during the morning. He tells her of the new sculptures he’s sold thanks to his muse. He tells her that he’s happy, really, honestly and entirely happy. He tells her that he loves Cas, that, for once in his life, he doesn’t feel guilty for being happy. Jess couldn’t be happier for them, but she has nothing on Dean. He plans their future in brushes across Cas’ lips.

     “How about a small wedding in the city?” he suggests as Cas drifts into sleep. Cas hums his approval and pulls Dean’s arms tighter around his waist. “We’ll invite all our old exes to show them how much happier we are without them, like Balthazar, for example.” Dean snorts.

     “ _Dean,_ ” Cas chastises softly, a gentle smile pulling his lips. Dean grins into Cas’ shoulder and lets sleep overcome him.

     “What about a cat?” Cas asks over breakfast one sunny spring morning. The date nears their six month anniversary. 

     “Nah, I’m allergic,” Dean says and takes a sip of his coffee. “What about a kid?” Cas freezes, his fork of pancakes halfway to his lips. “I mean, not right now, obviously. I want to get a steadier job than the sculptures and maybe move to the suburbs so Mary can go to a good school.”

     “Mary,” Cas mimics, a small smile ghosting onto his lips as he pictures the little girl. 

     “Well…it’s for my mom. You have input too, of course; I’ve just always wanted a Mary.” Dean offers a meek smile to Cas, but Cas is grinning brilliantly from ear to ear.

     “No, I love it,” Cas says, reaching out and threading his fingers through Dean’s. “Can her middle name be Hannah? For my sister?”

     “Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean tells him with a smile. So, in Dean’s head, their little girl becomes Mary Hannah—usually just Mary—and she is fucking adorable. He falls asleep dreaming of brushing little Mary’s soft curls and of coaching her soccer team. He finds himself imagining with great delight the little fights that will line their lives of domesticity. 

     “Dean, I asked you to unload the dishwasher. Now the glasses are all spotty,” Cas will say, his tie hung undone around his neck because he always waits until the last second to tie it. 

     “You never said that,” Dean will tell him, his hair limp from his early morning with a fussy Mary. Cas will roll his eyes, kiss Mary goodbye, and make his way to kiss Dean goodbye even though he’s irritated with his husband. 

     After these dreams, Dean always awakes wrapped in Cas’ arms because it’s getting cold outside again, and the man is an octopus when he’s cold. Lying there, Dean cannot think of a single place he’d rather be. He is entirely at peace with life. His depression is a mere ghost in the back of his mind, easily silenced by the antidepressants he no longer wants to swallow the entirety of and the warmth of Cas beside him. He’s even at peace with Sam. Granted, he misses the bitch every single day, but he no longer wants vengeance for his death. 

     Instead, he wants to be with Cas every second of the day, and when they are together, he never tires of things to say, of the light in Cas’ eyes. Dean especially enjoys teasing Cas. One particularly lazy morning, the two attempt to do the dishes. Cas washes—or tries to—as Dean dries—but mostly gropes and grinds on Cas. Dean is bored, so when Cas devotes his attentions to the dishes, Dean grins and slaps his ass with the dishtowel, earning himself a sharp jerk and yelp from Cas. 

     Pleased with the result from his first tease, he does it repeatedly, none of the slaps committed enough to do any damage other than a sting he knows Cas secretly loves. He whines for Dean to stop, but Dean doesn’t because soon enough they are both giggling messes, Cas running from Dean and Dean chasing him around the library like a maniac high on the sound of Cas’ laughter. Dean catches Cas eventually—Cas lets him eventually—and Dean presses Cas’ shoulders into the wall with his own. 

     “I’ve got you now,” Dean growls playfully into Cas’ ear. He pins Cas’ wrists above his head and kisses him softly, a sharp contrast to the abuse of his teasing dishtowel. 

     “You’ve always had me,” Cas says quietly, putting his head back against the wall so he can see Dean clearer. Dean grins and kisses his boyfriend again before pulling away and leading him back to the kitchen. 

     To celebrate their first year together, they have dinner at a diner. They are both content not to make a big deal about the evening. It is the first of many in their eyes. However, they do exchange gifts. For Cas, Dean has been trying his hand with graphite and paper, and what he comes back with is a full sketchbook with page after page of Cas. Cas laughing. Cas reading. Cas dozing on Dean’s shoulder. Cas’ eyes and his nose and his lips fill page after page, and he is beautiful. Dean hopes that with this gift, Cas sees himself the way Dean sees him. Cas, upon opening the present, flips through page after page, insisting on absorbing every single detail of the painstakingly precise drawings, a small smile on his lips. 

     “Thank you,” he whispers finally, and kisses Dean across the table even though he’s usually not one for PDA. For Dean, Cas declares that they must leave the restaurant. Dean immediately gets excited imagining all the things he can’t do to Cas in public, but when Cas insists that he drive, Dean becomes more suspicious than aroused. Dean obliges though, his curiosity getting the better of him as he passes Cas the keys to the Impala. They ride without speaking for a while, Cas humming softly as he drives. Dean smiles, moves closer to Cas, and lays a possessive hand on the inside of his thigh. Cas smiles gently. 

     When they stop at the sleepy, blinking light in the center of town, Cas puts the Impala in park and turns to Dean. Dean’s eyes widen.

     “Cas, you can’t just park in the middle of the street! We’re gonna get hit, and I just waxed Baby.”

     “Oh, hush. Do you see any cars?” Cas asks, a small grin on his face as he sees Dean look around and realize he is right. “I’m going to cover your eyes, and, Dean Winchester, so help me, if you peek, I will refuse to have sex with you until your birthday.” 

     “Harsh,” Dean laughs, silently terrified because his birthday is still a lifetime away, especially since Cas’ threat silently promises ruthless teasing. Cas laughs and reaches out, a black shirt hanging from his hands that he quickly ties around Dean’s head, sufficiently blocking out the light. As soon as Dean leans back in his seat, reaching out to find the warm spot between Cas’ legs for his hand, Dean hears the gear shift and they begin to roll forward. Dean tries to track the curves and turns in his head, but he has a feeling that the four right turns Cas consecutively makes are to keep Dean from doing just that. Suffice it to say, Dean is exactly as clueless as Cas wants when they finally stop. Cas’ leg falls from beneath his hand as he Cas pushes open the door and walks around to Dean’s side to help him out.

     “How gentlemanly,” Dean quips with a grin.

     “Shut up,” Cas says without malice, a smile lining his voice. Cas leads Dean by the hand over concrete, that much Dean can tell, but when a door creaks open, Dean is lost. 

     “Smells like the shop,” Dean comments, nostalgia rising in him as he squeezes Cas’ fingers. Dean had been trying for several months to convince the banks to loan Dean the money to reopen the place, but apparently, his recent suicide attempt made him a terrible candidate to invest 150 grand in.

     “Okay,” Cas says, stopping Dean and pulling the blindfold off of his eyes. Dean blinks around the lights for a moment, focuses his eyes on Cas, then looks around him. 

     “It’s the garage,” Dean says softly, but he isn’t quite sure what it means. 

     “It’s _your_ garage,” Cas amends, drawing Dean’s eyes back to him. He wears a huge grin on his face as he presents Dean with a set of crisply folded papers. “Well,” Cas says as Dean begins to open the sheets, his fingers trembling. “Technically, it’s ours, but I give you full disclosure.” The papers in Dean’s hand read, in essence, “The Bank of Vermont awards Castiel Novak the amount of $150,000 for the restoration and reopening of small business, ‘Singer’s Auto’.” 

     “We got the loan,” Dean says finally, a hysterical laughter bubbling up in the depths of his chest.

     “We did,” Cas says, giggles rising in him as well. Dean is so overjoyed that he sort of crumbles the papers in his attempt to hug Cas as tightly as he possibly can. 

     Even with the loan settled, it takes forever to get the garage up and running. Cas’ birthday has passed. Sam’s birthday has passed. Both were spent in Cas’ arms. After all the headaches and heartburn to get the shop running, the first day turns out just as terrible as Dean feared it would. He changes three snooty ladies oils, all of whom treat him like nothing more than a grease monkey, rotates, no lie, thirty-one sets of tires, cuts a lonely old man a two hundred dollar break because Dean knows he doesn’t have it, _and_ mans the phone because Sam isn’t here to do it. That’s the day he asks Cas to marry him. 

     Cas is waiting for him when he gets home, ready for whatever complaints Dean has to throw at him. What he’s not ready for is Dean dropping to one knee the minute Cas steps up to him. He actually looks confused, but when Dean pulls the ring—no box—from his pocket, his face drops into shock, elation. The ring wasn’t anything special despite the hours he spent searching for just the right one and the name he painstakingly engraved into the inside to remind Cas who he was. It was simple and gold, exactly the kind that Dean never thought he’d have.

     “Cas,” he starts, searching those blue eyes and finding no hesitation within himself. Heterosexual Dean is about to ask a man to marry him. Heterosexual Dean can no longer imagine himself anywhere but in this man’s arms. Heterosexual Dean has never loved a human being as much as he loves Cas—except for Sam, but that doesn’t count in this situation because he’s never wanted to bend Sam over a table and fuck him until he couldn’t remember his own name. 

     “Cas,” Dean says again, hopping closer on his knee. He’s not nervous. He will not take no for an answer. If Cas says no today, he’ll ask him again tomorrow, and should he say no then, he’ll ask him again the next day. “I’m pretty convinced that I’m a light switch because, baby, every time you walk into the room, I get turned on.” Dean grins, and Cas laughs, reaching out a hand to push through Dean’s hair. “Really, Cas, you know I’m not good at this stuff, chick-flick moments and all, but I love you. I know I don’t say it enough, but God, do I ever. When you saved me at the foot of that bridge that night, I wanted to hate you so badly, but I couldn’t. Since then, you’ve saved me a hundred times over, in every way possible. Cas, you’re the angel in this hell, the light of my life, the reason the birds sing and the earth turns and the reason I wake up in the mornings.” Cas’ lips begin to quiver. He kneels before Dean, leveling his eyes to Dean’s as he sinks to his knees. “I’d do anything for you, Cas,” Dean murmurs, watching the trembling in Cas’ lips intensify. “Hell, you turned me queer,” Dean says with a teasing bark of laughter. Cas throws his head back and lets out a short burst of laughter as well. 

     “You can’t catch homosexuality,” he tells Dean, reaching out and cupping his cheeks before bringing their foreheads together. “The fact that you like men is entirely your own preference.” Dean smiles, his eyes falling on Cas’ lips. 

     “Maybe I was born with it,” he suggest with a smile, bringing his eyes back to Cas’.

     “Maybe it’s Maybelline,” Cas suggests with an even brighter smile. Dean cannot help how much he loves this man. 

     “Marry me, Cas,” Dean says softly, offering the ring to Cas with a shy smile. It’s a question. It’s a request. It’s a plea. 

     “On one condition,” Cas tells him, drawing their foreheads apart and scuttling towards his trench coat draped over the chair. He reaches in the pocket and returns to Dean, concealing the object between his cupped hands. 

     “Anything,” Dean tells Cas earnestly. He means it too. A small grin covers Cas’ lips as he opens his hands, revealing a small velvet box. “Will _you_ marry _me_ , Dean?” Cas asks, opening the box to reveal a simple gold band, the exact same one that Dean holds out to Cas. Dean laughs aloud, declaring to himself that if this is not proof that they are meant to be, nothing is. 

     Jess plans the wedding, just as Dean hoped she would. She is filled with enthusiasm and fervor, so much so that once or twice, they consider eloping, but they both know they owe her too much to deprive her of milking their wedding for all it’s worth. They decide to have the wedding on a warm spring day, May 2nd. Sam would be happy. 

     The invitations go out to friends first, simply because they are easier to get to than Dean’s family of dead and Cas’ family of disowned. Even so, their friends are excited, promising with equal verve that they will be there and throw killer bachelor’s parties that both grooms refuse. Dean tells Cas he doesn’t have to invite his parents if he doesn’t want to, but to Cas, this is a final door closing. If his family refuses to attend his wedding, he will finally, once and for all, move on. Dean thinks the chance for rejection is a chance for Cas to get hurt, but Cas is set. One goes to his parents. They say nothing. One goes to his eldest brother and his wife. They say nothing. One goes to his middle brother and his three children. They say nothing. One goes to his youngest older brother who lives alone in Miami. He answers.

     “Cassie,” he says as soon as Castiel answers the phone. 

     “Gabriel,” Cas says, his entire frame stiffening at the sound of his big brother’s voice. Dean, his head in Cas’ lap, looks up concerned to his fiancé’s shocked face. It takes him a moment to recognize the name, but as soon as he does, he sits up and turns on the couch to face Cas. Cas’ wide eyes search his for help. Dean takes his hand in a desperate attempt to ground him, to show him that he’s not alone in this. 

     “I got your wedding invitation. Don’t you need my blessings?” The man on the phone asks, and Cas’ fingers tighten on Dean’s. 

     “Are you calling to give them?” Cas asks tightly. Dean pulls his hand to his lips and gently kisses each of Cas’ knuckles before putting his other hand around the back of it as though it will sear the kisses onto Cas’ skin in a constant reminder that he is loved, that what his family deemed him as does not have to be true. 

     “I’m just calling to talk, Castiel,” Gabriel says, his voice gentle, placating, and talk they do. Cas tells his brother about his job, about his fiancé, about his life here, about his life since he was forced to leave. Gabriel apologizes. He apologizes profusely and honestly. He never wanted Cas to leave, and it’s not until recently that he himself has been able to break free of their father’s controlling hand and live his own life. Gabriel tells him that it’s because of Cas’ bravery and insistence to be himself that he could. Gabriel tells Cas that he wants to see him before the wedding and suggests that he should fly down to Miami for his bachelor’s party. Cas refuses initially, swearing that he and Dean aren’t doing bachelor’s parties, that there’s no single life to be mourning, but before Cas can get his way—because he will—Dean squeezes his hand and shakes his head.

     “Hold on, Gabe,” Cas says before he moves the phone to his chest so he and Dean can speak.

     “He’s your brother, Cas, and you haven’t spoken in years. You should go,” Dean tells him, tilting his head at his fiancé, a habit he’s picked up from none other than Cas himself. Cas hesitates a bit longer, but Dean has a feeling that Cas was just saying no for his benefit. He has a feeling that Cas cannot wait to see his brother again. He doesn’t take much convincing after that. 

     They make a plan for Cas to fly down to Miami the Saturday before the wedding, stay for three days, and fly back with Gabe for the ceremony. Dean is allowed to stay by himself, seeing that his doctors have finally deemed him stable enough to not kill himself. Dean will be alone for three days. He has closed down the shop for this week and the next for their wedding and honeymoon, so he will be sitting on his ass in the library for three days. Maybe he’ll start a sculpture. His possibilities are endless, and he could not be more excited. 

     When Saturday rolls around, he packs Cas' bags into the Impala, opens his door for him then walks around to his own. They hold hands on the way to the airport, but Cas repeatedly reminds Dean to check on the bee colony that found its home in the patch of sun behind the library after Cas sold his house, to check the bills because he's not sure if he's paid them yet, to eat every night and every day. 

     “Babe,” Dean tells Cas eventually, squeezing his fingers gently to draw his attention. “I'm going to be fine. _You’re_ going to be fine,” he tells him, because he knows that’s what he’s really concerned about.

     “I’m so nervous, Dean,” Cas admits in a small voice, putting his other hand around Dean’s for something more to hold onto. “I haven’t seen Gabe since I was eighteen. What if he hates me now?”

     “Cas,” Dean says with a small sigh. It makes Dean sad to see Cas insecure like this. “He’s going to love you. You’re kind and smart and funny, and he’s going to love you. You are his baby brother after all,” Dean says with a smile, remembering his own snot-nosed baby brother. 

     “Thank you, Dean,” Cas says finally, the tension seeping out of his shoulders as he relaxes back onto the seat. Dean can tell he’s still anxious, but by the time they make it to the airport, Cas has relaxed into the level headed man Dean fell in love with. 

     “Call me as soon as you land, okay,” Dean tells him, taking Cas’ hands in his and bringing them to his lips. “You know flying makes me nervous so…” His sentence trails off as Cas laughs, freeing one of his hands and bringing it to Dean’s face. 

     “You’re not even the one flying.”

     “Yes, but my better half is,” Dean says and grins. Cas grins back and leans in to give Dean a quick goodbye kiss. After the peck, Cas pulls away, but Dean, still holding tight to Cas’ hand, reels him back against him. “You’re leaving for three days, and you think _that_ qualifies as a goodbye kiss?” Dean asks with disbelieving eyes over a shit eating grin. Cas rolls his eyes but leans in to kiss Dean, _really_ kiss Dean. When they separate, Dean hugs Cas one last time before watching him go. 

     Cas calls that night just as Dean sits down for dinner to tell him about the excruciating bore of the flight. Dean puts him on speaker phone and pretends that they are sitting down for dinner just like always, that he’s not hundreds of miles away. Dean admits to himself with a small sigh that this separation thing is a lot more difficult that he realized. 

     “I miss you,” he tells Cas before he hangs up, to which he can almost hear Cas’ soft smile. 

     “I love you. I’ll be home before you know it,” Cas says, then hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who want to believe that Dean and Cas live happily ever after, this would be a great place to stop reading. You can pretend the last two chapters don't exist. You can pretend that Cas got off the plane just as he was supposed to and that he ran into Dean's arms with a grin on his face. You can pretend that they got married just as they planned. You can pretend that little Mary was a biter. You can pretend that they lived full and happy lives together. You can pretend that, just this once, Dean got to keep his happiness, and I will not blame you, not in the least. For the rest of you, brace yourselves, and I know that I apologize.


	16. Chapter 16

     Dean, in the absence of Cas, does everything he can to keep himself busy. He washes Baby…twice. He reads the first three books in the _Harry Potter_ series. He beats _Assassin’s Creed_. He starts a new sculpture, one that coincidentally resembles Cas’ out-stretched fingers. Despite all that he does to keep himself busy, all Dean really does is miss Cas, despite Cas calling him every day.

     “Gabriel tried to take me to a strip club,” Cas tells Dean one night, his voice like home to Dean after a long day alone. “He seems to have forgotten that I’m a gay male engaged to a man who looks like Jensen Ackles.” Dean laughs and stretches his arms out to the empty side of the bed next to him.

     “They have male strip clubs, you know,” Dean tells him, clutching the phone tighter to his ear.

     “Yes, but I’ve already seen you naked. There’s no competition for that.” Cas’ voice is earnest and teasing at the same time. They both fall asleep on the phone that night, the breathing of the other a lullaby of familiarity. 

     “Miami smells like salt,” Cas comments idly the next night. Dean can tell by the silence around Cas that he is in bed, the covers pulled up to his ears to make up for the lack of Dean’s body heat. Dean too is in bed, lying on his back in the middle of his bed because it makes the empty spaces next to him seem smaller. “Maybe it’s from the sea,” Cas continues after yawning. “I think it’s probably from all that people sweat.” Dean will never tire of his future husband’s voice. 

     On the last night of their separation, Dean whispers all the reasons and ways and things he loves about Cas. Cas soaks them up. He stores them away, every praise and every hallelujah that Dean gives him because there will come a day, for there always comes a day, when Cas will forget all he’s worth and all he means to Dean. There will come a day that Cas forgets all he’s worth, and when that day comes, he’ll hear Dean’s voice telling him that he could not live without him. When that day comes, he’ll look to Dean, see what he saved and see that he did something right, if that was the only thing he ever did right. 

     When Dean awakes the next morning, he is giddy. He is childlike because Cas, Cas, Cas! Cas is coming home! Dean spends the morning jittery and giggly and restless. He straightens everything from his bed sheets to the books downstairs. He shaves the four day scruff he’s been growing because he knows Cas prefers a five o’clock shadow. He obsesses because Cas, Cas, Cas! He fidgets and straightens until he thinks he’ll implode. Eventually, he calls Cas.

     “Hey babe,” he answers when he hears the click of an open line. 

     “Hello, Dean,” Cas says, a smile in his voice even among the chaos behind him. 

     “What time is your flight getting in?” Dean asks even though he knows. Cas’ flight left at noon, a two hour, forty-three minute flight to Philadelphia where he’s at now, where he’ll stay until his hour and forty-three minute flight back home, back to Dean.

     “I’ll be at Burlington by 5:20, should all go according to schedule,” Cas tells Dean with a laugh. _Fuck, just another three hours_.

     “God, you have no idea how much I miss you,” Dean says, shifting around in the kitchen because, well, he misses Cas.

     “I know. I miss you too, but hey. Gabe got us some really…interesting wedding gifts that I’m absolutely certain you’ll enjoy.”

     “Please tell me they’re for the honeymoon.”

     “Oh, they’re _definitely_ for the honeymoon.”

     “Fuck,” Dean groans, earning himself a small laugh from Cas. 

     “Listen, Dean, I’ve got to go. Gabriel is taking me to lunch before the flight. I love you,” he says and hangs up before Dean can say it back. Dean decides that he might go crazy if he does not leave the house, and on that note, he snatches his keys off the shelf by the door and takes to the Impala. 

     He drives everywhere, nowhere, until he finds himself at the airport with only an hour until Cas’ flight should land. Dean sits in his car for a bit, trying hard to let Kansas move the minutes faster, and for a while, it works; at least, it distracts him enough for the sudden burst of activity coming from the airport doors to be a shock. Dean makes his way out of the car, wondering if a flight, Cas’ flight landed early. When Dean pushes through the doors and crowds to get perspective on the chaos, a news broadcast showing from a large television on the wall catches his attention.

     “…coverage of the 3:55 flight from Philadelphia to Burlington as it loses control due to weather and crashes. The first response workers are rapidly sifting through the wreckage to find any who might have survived this grisly crash. Stay tuned for more…” Dean’s eyes follow the solemn faced reporter as she motions to the pile of fire and smoke billowing behind her. Dean does not panic. He does not fear. He takes in each fact with a numb sense of detachment. _Cas is coming home today._ Dean breathes in slowly, legs locked in the midst of the panicking crowd. _Cas was on his 3:55 flight from Philadelphia._ Dean’s eyes shift to the lady next to him. She has tears in her eyes. Her left shoe is untied. _The plane crashed._ The silence between Dean’s heartbeats is loud enough to drown out all the noise. _Cas crashed,_ and everything crashes around Dean. Dean himself crashes to the ground, his knees slamming against the concrete floor of the terminal. 

     “Sir,” someone says, nothing but a pair of big, brown eyes really. “Do you need help?” the eyes ask. Dean’s pretty sure he’s saying Cas’ name. Dean finds himself dialing Cas’ number because it can’t be right. There’s no way Cas is dead. No, none at all. Cas’ voice comes on after the fourth ring. Dean chokes back a sob at the sound, but the tears start as soon as he hears what Cas says.

     “Hi, you’ve reached Castiel.” Dean cries harder. “I can’t get to the phone right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible if you leave me your name and number.” _He can’t be dead._

     “Cas,” Dean sobs after the beep. “The plane crashed, and they’re telling me you’re,” Dean cannot speak through his tears. “I need you to be okay, Cas,” Dean pleads finally. Dean hangs up, watches the coverage of the crash from his perch on his knees, his hands trembling. He dials Cas again and again, each time getting the false reassurance of Cas’ voicemail. 

     “No, no, no,” he whispers, hanging up and calling him again. There is no answer other than Cas saying he’s sorry he missed the call. The voice from the television suddenly becomes louder than Cas’, and the words she’s speaking come through solemn lips and sad eyes.

     “I know this tragedy has pained us all, but my heart especially goes out to the loved ones of those lost here today. One hundred and thirty-eight lives were taken in this crash, including all the crew and passengers.” 

     Dean’s eyes follow the woman, his mind reeling. Cas can’t be dead. Dean stands and leaves the airport in a sprint, sliding into the car and speeding home because surely Cas will be there waiting for him, ready to laugh at Dean for even thinking he was dead. Tears blur his vision as he drives because there’s no way Cas is dead. Dean is still alive, so Cas is still alive. Dean cannot survive without Cas. 

     When Dean gets to the library, he leaves the car running because Cas’ll be waiting for him inside, and he can turn it off after he sees that Cas is safe. The bottom floor of the library is silent, cold against Dean’s short sleeve clad arms as he searches the aisles and runs up the stairs. The tears come freely again. He doesn’t notice. All he notices is the emptiness in every room he searches through, and with that, reality slams into him like a freight train. 

      _Cas is dead,_ Dean thinks, a sob choking him as he collapses in the middle of their room. _I will never hear him laugh again._ Dean cries into his hands, as though they could stop the pain, the tears. _I will never see his smile, his eyes._ Dean cannot breathe through his tears. Death has never hurt so badly in his entire life, and Dean has lost nearly everyone he’s ever loved. _I’ll never get to meet him at the altar. I’ll never get to see him with our child. I’ll never get to tell him how much I love him._ The pain is overwhelming for Dean, so much so that for a long while, all he can do is sit and cry, sit and feel it, sit and let it devour him. Then, with the tears slowly drying on his face, he does what he’s always done when the pain becomes too much.

     The blade biting into his skin is its own form of torture. It hurts, sure, but it’s nothing compared to the fact that Cas, _his_ Cas is gone. The blades in his hands make the sadness worse…He knows this is not what Cas would want for him, but Cas is no longer around to want anything for him. As Dean slowly, horribly slowly, bleeds out on his bedroom floor, he sees that the pain inside of him is too much for the tiny blades to take away. 

     The tears stop slowly, and Dean finds himself rising to his feet among the bloodstains and chaos of his shattered world. His room looks exactly the way it did after he left this morning, save for the drop of blood Dean leaves with every step. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t made the bed. Having a messy bed was always something that was associated with Cas. Dean sees the picture on the nightstand. It’s a new one, one Jess took that Cas recently had framed because he said that Dean looked like Patrick Swayze with his bed head and clean jaw. Dean always thought Cas stole the attention of the shot though. It’s a very natural one of him. The couple is sitting at the kitchen table talking as they do most meals. Cas’ head is thrown back with laughter, and Dean wears a proud smile because he did that. He made Cas laugh. 

     Dean’s heart clenches as he snatches the photo off the bedside table and leaves. The door is unlocked.

* * *

     Dean doesn’t cry as he drives. The tears would hinder him, but even if he wanted to cry, this fight is over for him. Dean has given this life all he had to give. It has taken everything from him, so there is no reason for tears. Cas was the beginning of his new life, the source of his unadulterated happiness, the be-all of his whole world. It stands to reason that he would also be the end-all. 

     The climb to the top is not as bad as before. His hands don’t tremble in fear. His heart doesn’t stutter with hesitation. Each step is propelled up by the fact that Cas is gone. _Cas is dead._ Dean climbs up over his fear of heights. _He’s not coming home._ The top is closer than he remembered seeing, but he doesn’t hesitate there either. He steps to the edge, the ache of Cas’ death overwhelming in its entirety. _Cas is dead. He is never coming home._

     Dean looks down to the concrete below him. It’s probably still stained with his last attempt. The bridge hasn’t changed much in the two years it’s been since he’s seen it from the top. It’s still a sleepy, old bridge, one that looks so sad and alone that it’s shocking there haven’t been more people to decide to pitch themselves off the top. The world is similar too. Night fell sometime between Burlington and emptiness. The smell of the air promises rain. 

     Dean doesn’t waste his time apologizing this time. There’s no one left to apologize to. Cas is dead, and if he hadn’t insisted he go see his brother he wouldn’t be, but Dean doesn’t apologize. His death will be penance enough. 

     Dean has survived a lot, but Cas’ death is not something Dean can even contemplate surviving. So he jumps, and when he hits the ground, there is no angel there to save him. It’s just him and the end he has always known was coming for him.


	17. Chapter 17

     When Cas moved out, he changed Dean’s emergency contact to Jess, so when Dean’s abandoned Impala attracts attention to his lifeless body, she is the one the doctors notify. She loses both Dean and Cas in a single phone call. Jessica is devastated. She cries through airport security. She cries through her flight. She cries as her taxi dumps her at the library free of charge because she sobbed the whole drive. She finds the door unlocked. 

     The place smells like Dean. It smells like Sam. It smells like Cas. It smells like the home she’s always had here. She sees Dean’s sculpture on the wall, the one he made for Sam, the one Sam was so proud of that he made his brother hang it where everyone who entered their home would see Dean’s talents. She makes her way upstairs, every step an ache in her bones. _How could I have lost them all?_ She asks herself, her fiancé…his brother…his fiancé. 

     She finds herself in Dean and Cas’ room, the bed made like Dean swore it never was because of Cas. She’s looking for a letter, something to tell her that he would have done this even if she’d been here, that there was nothing she could have done to save him. There is nothing for Jess but a crisp bed and the empty nightstand where her favorite picture of Cas and Dean once sat. She decides quickly that she cannot stay in the room where Dean should be, where Cas should be, and finds herself in the bottom floor of the library pacing because there’s no way she can notify friends and family and arrange funerals and mourn them at the same time. 

     The tumblers turning in the unlocked door startle her out of worrying. Fear and anger races into her veins as she steps behind the opening door to ambush the bastard who would enter the house of the dead. Just as the door swings open, Jess lunges, landing clean on the intruder’s back, setting him off balance and crashing face-first into the wall where he collapses in a heap with Jess atop him. The fiery blonde pushes off him so she can see his face, but the face she jerks around to meet her is not the guilty and angry face she expects to see. Instead, the face, nothing more than big blue eyes really, looks shocked, and the same could be said about Jessica. 

     “Cas,” she murmurs, taking in his wide blue eyes and startled face with a hysteric joy rising in her chest. “You’re alive,” she finishes, tears filling her eyes as she snatches him to her in a hug. He hugs her back on instinct before the words sink in around him.

     “What do you mean?” he asks, pulling her off him gently. “Of course, I’m alive. I just missed my flight because my coat got stolen. Everything was in there, my wallet, my phone, my tickets.” Cas pauses, the look on Jess’ face freezing his blood cold. “What happened? Where’s Dean?” he asks, his heart speeding rapidly. Tears build in Jess’ eyes.

     “We thought you were dead, Cas,” she whispers, tears sliding down her face.

     “Jessica, _where is Dean_?” Cas asks again, his voice trembling. He knows the answer. He can feel it in his soul, burning him like a nasty fire that he had been trying to pretend didn’t exist. 

     “He jumped,” she says quietly, tears staining her voice. Cas’ whole world stops with those two little words. His chest stops heaving. His heart stops beating. His lungs stop breathing. His mind stops reeling. His world stops turning. _He jumped._

     Cas doesn’t cry. He’d have to feel for that. He doesn’t move. He’d have to care for that. Cas sits right by the door for hours, his bags still where he dropped them, his clothes still awry where Jess fought them. She eventually pulls him to his feet, murmuring about how he’ll get cold from the draft by the door. What she doesn’t realize is that Dean is gone. He’ll never be warm again. He soon finds himself in their bedroom, the one that has seen the best and now the worst of their lives. He sees Dean has made the bed, and the sight nearly chokes him. _Dean can’t be dead. He can’t._ With that, Cas trades his own clothes for a sweatshirt that smells like Dean and crawls between the sheets of their bed. _He’s not dead. He’s just gone. He’ll come home soon._

     The reality of the situation creeps up on him the next morning. It begins with the empty bed, sending the lies Jess told him about Dean jumping to the forefront of his mind. _She’s wrong,_ he thinks through the sleep and fear and doubt. He clutches Dean’s cold pillow to his chest. Tears fall from his eyes even though he doesn’t believe it. 

     When he finds the strength inside himself to go downstairs, there is no coffee, because Jessica doesn’t usually drink coffee, and Dean isn’t around to fix it. Cas nearly cries as he prepares the coffee for himself, and he definitely cries as he sits drinking it, alone. He is finally convinced. Dean, his Dean, has left him. He has abandoned Cas right in the prime of their lives, and he has ripped Cas’ heart out like it were a tooth and Dean were a slamming door. Jessica comes in eventually, sees Cas hunched over the coffee he doesn’t think he can stomach anymore, and hugs him around his shoulders, her small arms making him ache for Dean’s big ones. Cas cries harder. 

     “How could he do this to me?” he cries, his voice echoing around in the Dean-less kitchen. “How could he just leave me?” Jessica cries harder against him, asking herself the same question. “How dare you, Dean Winchester,” Cas screams finally, anger tearing through him as he sends his coffee cup sailing across the room to shatter against the far wall, a trail of coffee in its wake. Shattering the mug does nothing to save the shattering Cas, so instead of breaking more, he puts his face into his hands and cries angry tears, ones that curse Dean for leaving him, for jumping, for not jumping sooner, for being born in the first place.

* * *

     They bury him beside Sam. Next to Sam is their mother, and beside her, their father. Everyone Dean ever loved is dead in the ground beside him. Everyone but Cas... The funeral is a short business. Not many people come. There weren’t many people to care. Charlie comes, accompanied by Dorothy. Benny comes, accompanied by his new wife. Gabe comes, having rented his hotel room an extra week to try to help put his brother back together. A few odds and ends from Dean’s work come, associates that he may have met while changing their tires or selling them a piece of his soul. Jess cries through the entire service, but Cas does not cry at all. Jess speaks kindly of Dean, lovingly. She emphasizes his strength, his heart, his will. She speaks of him as the brother she never had, and when she finishes, she looks expectantly to Cas, tears having stained her tanned face. Cas swallows and takes a step forward. 

     He knows he should speak kindly. He should tell this small crowd of mostly strangers of all the good he always saw in Dean. He should tell them about Dean’s plans for their future, about his talent as a sculptor, about his laughter at three-thirty in the morning. Cas knows he should speak well of Dean, but staring at the casket—nailed shut to hide his shattered skull, his every broken bone—Cas cannot help but think that these people, these strangers who never knew Dean the way he did, do not deserve to know about the greatness of Dean.

     “I wish I had never met him,” Cas says instead, and the words startle him on their way out. He cannot believe he could ever have found such animosity towards the love of his life, let alone mean it, but here he was, telling this crowd of strangers that he wished he’d never met Dean. Jess takes his hand, expecting him to cry or to finish or to say ‘just kidding,’ but he doesn’t. He just grits his teeth as the casket lowers into the ground, angry at himself, at Dean, at whatever God he once believed in. Even after Dean’s body is covered, his grave filled and its visitors gone back to their own homes to kiss their wives and tuck their children in bed, Cas stays. He has insisted that Jessica goes, that he needs a moment alone with Dean, and she eventually does, leaving him to stare at the cold stone that is nothing like Dean’s warmth. 

     “I wish I had never met you,” he tells the stone. He swears that from somewhere, be it the Heaven Cas knows Dean went to or the Hell he always swore he was destined for, a sharp gasp of pain comes from between a set of lips that sound like Dean’s. “Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have to deal with the overwhelming… _devastating_ pain of losing you.” Cas clenches his jaw, clenches his fist. “I hate you, Dean Winchester.” Tears well in his eyes. “I hate you with everything in me because you have ruined me. You swore that you wouldn’t go, and you did! You left me! I hate you. I hate you. _I hate you._ ” Cas falls to his knees over the freshly turned ground. “Please come back,” he begs, tears streaming down his face as he pushes it into the ground, the dirt. “Please don’t leave me. _I can’t do this without you._ I’ll do whatever you want, just please, _please_ come back.” 

     He sobs there for a long time, his heart breaking because he has nothing left to give. The world turns to silence around him. All of his fellow grievers have left. All of the people whose hearts he could count on breaking next to his have picked up their pieces and left. “Please come back,” he murmurs into the ground, as he has been for the past hour or two. His suit is ruined. He is ruined. 

     He spends a long time alone, sleeping in Dean’s clothes or not sleeping at all. He keeps telling himself that if he’d just picked up a payphone that night, Dean would still be alive. He keeps telling himself that it’s his fault Dean is dead, and because of these thoughts, he falls into the same place Dean did after Sam died, before he killed himself. Depression becomes as much his spiritual stench as alcohol becomes his physical stench. He drowns himself in the stuff because whiskey always tastes a little like Dean, and the burn going down is much easier to focus on than the blackness that devours him when he’s sober. 

     Jess stops by often, more often than she should considering she’s falling behind in her classes and her boss is on the verge of firing her, but she needs Cas. She needs to see that not everyone she loves will leave her, even though the Cas that she once loved is not the Cas who sits before her. Cas has lost himself. He has given everything to Dean, and Dean is gone. 

     They do this dance for many weeks. Jess has a fit in the night, dreaming that Sam is being stabbed, that Dean is falling, that Cas is burning, and she hops on the next flight out. Cas opens the door to her, shielding his hung-over eyes from the blinding light. Jessica hugs him, tears on her face, and he hugs her back without feeling anything at all.

     There isn’t a day that goes by that Cas doesn’t think of Dean and flinch. There isn’t a day that goes by that Cas doesn’t yell at Dean for leaving. There isn’t a day that goes by that Cas doesn’t break down and cry, begging Dean to come back. There isn’t a day that Cas doesn’t drown his sorrows in liquor…that is, until one day, there is. 

     One day, Cas doesn’t pick up a bottle, and he doesn’t pick up a pill. Instead, he lets the overwhelming weight of being alone without Dean crash him into fits of crying and yelling and aching, and God does it. He lets it remind him that he loved Dean. He loved Dean with everything in him, and soon after that one day, there comes a day when Cas doesn’t cry. Instead, he drinks his coffee with a sharp ache in his chest, and after that, there comes a day when Cas doesn’t yell at Dean for leaving. Instead, he puts new flowers on his grave and sits to talk to him, and soon after that, there comes a day when Cas doesn’t think of Dean and flinch. Instead, he thinks of Dean, and smiles. 

     He thinks of Dean and remembers the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the shine of gold in his green eyes and the scars on his hands from accidents and incidents. He thinks of Dean, _his_ Dean, encased in the hazy light of a sleepy morning, one where he holds Cas and smiles. He thinks of all the people who would kill to be loved in all the great and terrible ways that he has been loved. He thinks of these people who would rather be loved to pieces than not at all, and he smiles because he loves Dean the way the ocean loves the shore, the way the stars love the sky, the way that Romeo loved Juliet and Cleopatra loved Mark Antony and Orpheus loved Eurydice and Gertrude loved Alice, and dear God, how their love outshone them all! 

     Jess eventually pulls her life together. She pulls herself up by her bootstraps and dives back into the world like the little socialite she’s always been. She eventually settles down with a nice boy named Adam that resembles Sam in some shadowy way. They name their first child Samuel Dean, and insist that Cas be the Godfather. The small head of blonde curls makes Cas remember his dream, the one he shared with Dean, and he realizes that he hasn’t given up on that dream. In fact, nearly every night when he sleeps, he dreams of a green eyed man who smells like oil and plaster. He dreams of a laughing baby with his blue eyes and Dean’s spotting freckles. He dreams of the life he’ll never have with Dean and awakes sad, but thankful. 

     He thinks of those poor saps, the ones who lived in so-called ‘great loves’, with their happy endings or the same heartache Cas still feels, and he knows that he was luckier than them all. He knows that, even though he’ll never see Dean smile again, or feel his laughter in his chest, he knows that their small library-turned-home has seen more love and reverence and passion than the whole world combined. He thinks about this, his self-made coffee in hand, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! (And I'm sorry...)
> 
> Feel free to check out the next piece of the series for a little bit of recovery fluff. 
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! <3


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